The Plans and Preparations of Paupers
by BelleLitteraire
Summary: A/U set in Ireland and England. NO references to S3 or beyond. Part XII. "Would you be so calmly accepting if Tom decided to join the Brotherhood and leave you?" Sybil looked down at her tea, at the leafy bits that were starting to float up to the surface. Horrifying mental pictures of Tom arrested or beaten for the work he was doing made her shudder and inhale sharply.
1. Late Night Apologies

_I received some feedback about continuing "Realities" so this story picks up in the aftermath of Sybil's and Tom's argument. (Timeline is pre-"Day for Independence.")_

* * *

**I. Late Night Apologies**

That night, Sybil and Tom readied for bed in silence. She had set aside her knitting, and let Tom help her up from the sofa. She led the way upstairs, and he quietly followed to their bedroom. And still, nothing was said between them, even after he had agreed that they'd make their preparations for a long visit to Downton. He slowly undressed and changed into his pyjamas. As he did, he cast sidelong glances at Sybil, who slipped from her cotton print dress into another cotton one, white with cap sleeves and floral embroidery. The amber glow of the lamplight cast her figure in flattering relief. Her body had metamorphosed from the slim, shapely one that made his breath catch and never failed to arouse him. He once could encircle her waist and measure a slight gap of a distance at the points where his thumbs and middle fingers tried to meet. Now, of course, with the expectation of their first child, it would be a miracle to be able to cup his hands around her middle. Yet, to him, she exuded a different kind of sensuality, a maternal fullness and softness that was just as pleasurable for him to watch her transform into—she was no longer his young, girlish bride, but a woman, and mother-to-be.

Not once did Sybil look at him as she continued with her own nightly bedroom ritual. She sat at her vanity table and brushed and braided her hair, then worked cream into her hands, rubbing her forearms and elbows. The continuing silence pricked at him—usually she would hum or idly prattle on. But not tonight, and so Tom slid into cool sheets, and lay his head on the pillow, breathing deeply and closing his eyes. Like so many nights recently, he was feeling bone tired. He felt the mattress depress at his right side as Sybil joined him under the covers and he opened his eyes again briefly, to look at her, but she lay flat on her pillow and stared up at the ceiling.

He turned off the bedside lamp and leaned in to kiss her goodnight, but her voice stopped him. "Tom," Sybil began, "you didn't let me finish speaking tonight."

True, downstairs he had not allowed Sybil to apologize for that morning's argument. He knew what was in her heart, and he had thought it all right for her not to say she was sorry. "It's no matter, love. Let's just put it behind us."

"I don't want to, not yet. Please, just let me say this." She paused for what seemed like an eternity, and he swallowed at her ominous tone, expectant and a little fearful of more hard truths that might spill from her lips. He heard her exhale and she shifted herself towards him. He felt the press of her belly against his arm, and without turning his own body, he moved just his head to face her.

"Shall I turn the light back on?"

"No." Her hand was on his shoulder. "Today I learned some things about being a grownup, and about being a wife, a true partner to you. I spent hours sitting here thinking about you and of us. The only model of marriage I know is my parents' own. And not once had I heard either of them raise their voices at one another. I never heard my father speak unkindly to my mother, nor had I ever seen her disrespect him. So how could I have behaved towards you the way I did? I can only blame my bad temper, Tom, and I want you to know I'm really sorry." She moved as close as she could and wrapped her arm around his torso. "I appreciate how you take care of us. I just miss you, and when you're home you don't tell me much."

Even without seeing her face or the expressions on them, Tom could hear the penitence in her voice. He felt her hand stroking his shoulder as she spoke, smelled the light scent of her lotion. Her words at once humbled and heartened him. "_Ma mhuirnín_ you're not the only one with a temper. I'm sorry for throwing the teapot and making a mess of breakfast. It's just…" he paused, and turned his eyes upward, trying to choose his words carefully, "I don't want to worry you with what's going on out there. It's not good to put stress on you. For the sake of the baby, love. That's why I don't really tell you about what I cover."

He felt her lean up on her elbow. "But why, Tom?" she chided. "Why do you think that I need to be mollycoddled? I don't want you to cut me off from the world outside. Dublin isn't just where I live. It's just as much my home as it is yours. I _know_ what's happening out there. Don't you think I've seen the casualties of this war at the hospital?" Tom squirmed and she continued, "Oh yes, I know all about republicans tortured by the English in jails, their arms black and blue from being strapped in chairs, their fingers bloody stubs from the fingernails ripped off with rusted pliers. I hear the screams of men who have been beaten to a pulp by the bloody Tans drunk on liquor and power. I know all about hunger strikers with purple bruises at their necks and mouths, who'd had tubes jammed down their throats, their gagging reflexes on overload—all from the force feeding. Tom, these were the men and women in my care. I'm not immune to the violence." She finished, "And I know when you've had things on your mind so when you don't talk to me, I feel shut out."

"I don't mean to shut you out. I just thought I was doing the right thing, protecting you from all of that."

She lay back on her pillow and draped her right arm and leg around him. "I want us always to be open with one another, no matter what." She pressed on tenderly, her voice now lowered to a near whisper. "I'm happy with you. You're a good man and I don't ever want you to think I'd trade being Mrs. Tom Branson for being Lady Sybil Crawley. Ever."

He turned slightly towards her. "Mrs. Tom Branson! Are you no longer Sybil Branson? What would Sylvia Pankhurst say?" He then felt a slight poke in his rib and then he sobered, thinking back to how he'd accused her in his mind of pulling rank on him. "Really, do I make you happy? I doubt myself sometimes."

"No, not really," she said flatly and giggled. She reached for his hand and placed it on her belly. "A thousand times, yes. Isn't this proof of how permanent our life together is? And despite what was said this morning, I want you to know that home to me is wherever you and _an leanbh_ are."

Tom smiled, impressed with Sybil's ability to pick up and use Gaelic words and phrases, which, only after much practice in pronunciation, had recently become a part of her everyday vernacular. He never should have doubted her, and a warm feeling washed over him as he moved closer into her embrace. "Now I have something to tell you." He related the threatening anonymous letter and she listened quietly, rubbing his arm as next he told her of his plan to tell Stewart that he was taking a leave of absence, that the risk he was running to stay in Dublin was too great while they were expecting the baby.

"There are two kinds of lies," she said when he finished. "There are lies of commission and lies of omission. Keeping these secrets from me—even in the interest of shielding me—is like lying to me. And it's even more hurtful to know that you've been bearing this burden alone and you never need to. I'm your wife. I want you to confide in me, always, my darling."

He reached for her hand and pushed his fingers up through hers, interlocking them. "I will," he promised, and whispered, "_Tá mo chroí istigh ionat_."

She nuzzled against his neck. "And I love you," she whispered back. She softly peppered his neck with kisses, and in between them, said, "You know, Mabel thinks that fighting is better than giving each other the silent treatment."

Tom chuckled and curved himself over her. "Did she, now? Are you giving me fair warning that I should expect more feistiness from you?" His only answer was a giggle, a swat on the chest, and a pull into a deeper kiss that told him this fight had been put behind them.

* * *

_A/N:_ Tá mo chroí istigh ionat _literally means "my heart is within you," In the Gaelic vernacular it's an expression of romantic love. At least that's what my research told me; correct me if I'm mistaken._


	2. Cash Concerns, Unexpected Invitation

_To answer a query from a kind reviewer, at the time this story is set, the newspapers in both England and Ireland were not wholly impartial. Politically motivated agendas were commonly pushed. While I'd like to believe that journalists enjoyed a kind of immunity and invoked freedom of the press, I imagine that they were personally subject to threats and violent reprisals._

* * *

**II. Cash Concerns and an Unexpected Invitation**

Over breakfast the next morning, Tom and Sybil agreed that they would start their preparations for England immediately. Sybil would write her mother and spend the next few days on travel arrangements. As he kissed Sybil goodbye, Tom told her that he hoped for the best, that he could work out an arrangement with the paper. But he cautioned her that they should also prepare for the worst: his boss Jamie Stewart could simply fill the open position while they were gone. If he was lucky to have his job held, he also knew that Stewart would rather share a drink with a Tan than allow him to continue to collect a guaranteed salary while on leave.

Tom arrived at 9:30 AM at the _Times'_ smoke-filled news office, where he navigated his way through a maze of desks, at which typists were busily tapping out copy on their Underwoods and reporters were talking on telephones. He passed the composing room where copy setters with ink-splotched sleeves and fags between their lips set the rows of type on approved copy for the printing press. Grim-faced copyboys scurried here and there, calling out messages for reporters, shuffling typed manuscript between the copyeditors and fact checkers and proofreaders, and performing dozens of other behind-the-scenes tasks. Used to years of solitude in a petrol-permeated garage, Tom always felt invigorated by the swirl of smoke and the smell of ink that filled the newsroom. It was a contrast from the lonely hours in the garage _consuming_ the news to now _recording_ it, and here were his comrades in arms: men and women who worked tirelessly amidst the din of ringing telephones, chatter, clicking typewriters, and most importantly, the thunder of the printing presses. Here, in his own way, he fought for his country's independence—except what was spilled ran black instead of red.

Tom carefully picked his way over the slips of paper that littered the floor. He greeted the prim young secretary posted outside of Stewart's office. Alexandra was Stewart's third assistant since Tom joined the newspaper. "Good morning, Lexa," he smiled. "Is Stewart in?"

"Hello, Tom," she smiled brightly. "He's taking a call at the moment…." She glanced at the appointment book. "But you don't have an appointment to see him."

"Just need 15 minutes. It's urgent."

Alexandra and Tom had the kind of camaraderie that only two people could share when they were the constant targets of Stewart's curmudgeonly barks. "I'll see what I can do. Wait here."

Five minutes later, Tom stood in front of Stewart's desk, and he was getting an earful. "Fucking hell, Branson, what are you playing at?" he snarled. Bushy black brows knitted together, united in its expression of frustration. Tom inwardly groaned; it wasn't always easy to get a quarter hour of Stewart's time and this was not news that he liked his time wasted on. Jamie Stewart did not rise to his position as managing editor at the _Times_ by being polite. His unvarnished, confrontational personal style won him no friends, but his insightful and incisive writing earned him a grudging respect from his peers. He was a terrier, and even looked a little like one, with his thinning black hair standing in tufts. He wore the lines on his careworn face like badges of honor, stripes hard earned from steering the complex, frenzied rhythms of the investigations desk. And the piercing black eyes, ever observant, were now shooting daggers straight at Tom.

"Sir, I understand the inconvenience and impact this has on the team—"

"Inconvenience?" Stewart interrupted, eyebrows now quirked in a mocking fashion. "You know what's _inconvenient,_ Branson? What's _inconvenient_, as you like to call this shite of an announcement, is when a garden party is ruined by rain, and you can't get a decent picture of the event for the society page. You're leaving me in a fucking lurch, giving me a week's notice!"

Tom clenched the muscles in his jaw; he knew he wasn't exactly Stewart's favorite reporter. Stewart drew his palm across his creased eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. The bags under his eyes stood out even more prominently as he then fixed his glare back at Tom. "I've got to find another reporter to cover the local wires. O'Connor and Quinlan are both off in County Clare covering the skirmishes." He reached for a pack of fags from his desk drawer, drew one out, and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger.

Tom pulled the anonymous letter from his briefcase and handed it to Stewart. "With all due respect, sir, I do understand the difficult position I'm placing you in. But I hope this will give you some context to the reasons for my taking a leave of absence. My wife and I are expecting, and I want to take her to her family in England. Just until she has the baby."

Stewart lit his cigarette and took a deep drag. With the fag still between his lips, he took thirty seconds to read it, fold it neatly, and hand it back to Tom. He blew a thin stream of smoke upward. "We get this shite every day. I get one at least once a week." Then, his expression softened. "You should have spoken up earlier about this. The situation here is grave Branson, I don't deny it. But my budget won't allow you to draw a full-time salary while on leave."

Tom wasn't about to give up. "I have a proposal that will allow me to keep writing pieces, and, I hope, to keep earning a steady paycheck."

Stewart squinted at him and took another drag of the cigarette. "Well? Go on, then."

"I'd like to write some op ed pieces."

"You want to write editorials?" Stewart scoffed. "_I_ do that, son."

"But I can continue to educate the readership here, offer a different perspective while I'm in England. There's only one right way to tell any story, and that's to tell the truth. But you and I both know that two things can be true at the same time. We have our version of it, and they have theirs. I believe our readers would be keen on knowing how our fight for freedom is affecting Parliament's policies."

Leaning back in his chair, Stewart mulled over the proposal and then stubbed out his cigarette. "I reserve the right not to pay for anything unless I deem it publishable," he said, partly obscured behind a cloud that didn't quite dissipate.

Tom was crestfallen, but he waited to hear more.

"_If_ I like them, they get published as editorial, not under your byline. You're not getting a column."

_Another nail in the coffin,_ Tom thought. Still he said nothing, and he braced himself for Stewart's final decision.

Tom's silent, stubborn stance seemed to mollify Stewart. "You'll be paid standard freelance rates for pieces that will be published." With a brief look of sympathy, he added, "And for your wife's sake I will find the budget for a per diem, but it will be small."

It was what he'd hoped—he'd keep his job and some income. "Thank you, sir. That's fair," Tom said.

Stewart rose, and opening the door of his office, called for his secretary. "Alexandra!"

The young woman leapt from her chair, and nearly rammed into her Underwood. "Yes, Mr. Stewart?"

"Get Branson's employment status changed to freelance." Swiftly Alexandra started pulling file folders and forms from her desk drawers. Stewart turned back to Tom. "And before you leave _today_, Branson, I want your bloody draft on that Auxies article I asked you for ages ago." He tossed him his packet of fags. "Here, you might need these. Mind yourself in England. Now get the fuck out of my office."

In the semi-privacy of the paper's loading dock, Tom leaned against the rough granite wall and lit up a cigarette. It had been years since he smoked—not since his brash and impetuous teenage days, when all he thought about was himself. For some reason, this morning's meeting with his editor called for a smoke. It was as though with every intake and exhalation of noxious nicotine he was trying to blow away the specter of uneasiness that did not stop haunting him since he married Sybil: that they were living a life of penury. He thought about Sybil's dowry, stowed in a savings account. The money, by Lord Grantham's estimation, was "not much," but it really was a sizable amount of cash, and Tom cursed himself whenever he had to touch it, feeling a part of his soul die every time. But he had to think about Sybil, and now, about the welfare of their little family. After using some of it to make an initial payment on the purchase of their house, he and Sybil had agreed they would save it, unless they both considered a situation a dire one and merited what Sybil jokingly termed "dowry dipping." Tom insisted that they were far from being paupers, and they would get by on their incomes if they were careful and frugal. He thought about the number of times since the house payment that they had to dip into Lord Grantham's money: last spring's roof repair, her emergency dental bill. And even more recently, with Sybil no longer working at the hospital, she'd asked twice to withdraw some money for groceries. Now his own guaranteed salary was reduced and she had none. As a thin stream of smoke issued from his taut lips, he muttered, "Bloody hell, who am I kidding? We _are_ paupers."

**x-x**

"Why have the fares increased almost fifty percent?" Sybil cried, aghast. "The crossing fares were not this high only a few months ago!"

"That's the going rate at the moment, I'm afraid," the ferry attendant replied, peering up at her through his pince nez. "Dock workers continuing on strike, ma'am, so we're scheduling fewer crossings."

Sybil mumbled her thanks and did not purchase the ferry tickets. Tom was not going to be happy to know about the fare increase. She would discuss it with him at home, and figure out what they should temporarily forego to purchase them. It was a brisk autumn afternoon: small leaves fluttered from shedding treetops, sprinkling the thoroughfare with gold and russet. Sybil wrapped her coat more tightly around her, fending off the chill that had begun to penetrate the thin material, and held onto her hat as she made her way through the bustling traffic towards the post office. She crossed the dusty cobblestone street, dodging other rushing pedestrians, and mindful of swift-moving cars and bicyclists. She had one more errand to run before catching the next trolley stopping in twenty minutes. Arriving at the post office, she presented a receipt for a special mail being held for pickup. The postmistress handed her a thick, heavy cream-colored envelope that bore Mary's florid script. Sybil carefully drew out a matching cream card and was genuinely surprised to read:

The Earl and Countess of Grantham,

Robert and Cora Crawley,

cordially invite you to the upcoming nuptials of their daughter,

Lady Mary Josephine Crawley

to

Mr. Matthew Crawley

son of the late Dr. Reginald Crawley

and Mrs. Isobel Crawley

She noted that its imminent date gave them another good reason to leave Dublin. An accompanying letter, folded neatly in quarters, was also enclosed in the envelope. _How like Mary not to ever fold her letters in thirds, _thought Sybil,_ because that was how tradesmen's letters of business were folded. _

She read its brief message:

_My darling baby sister – _

_I suppose I really cannot call my sister a baby when you're expecting one of your own. I have heard the happy news from Mama that you are in the family way. Please accept my congratulations and I hope you're keeping yourself in good health and not working too hard. I trust that all is well with you and Tom; please extend my greetings to him._

_I've been lax in writing to you, and for that I apologize. So much has happened since we've last seen you at your wedding. Matthew and I are engaged—since the New Year! I have never been in such a whirl. It's been months of fuss, what with the clothes, the guest list, the invitations, and oh, just the theatricality of it all. I am the luckiest girl in the world. It would mean everything to me to have you and Tom come to our wedding. When you arrive, we shall talk more._

_All my love,_

_Mary_

Mary and Matthew getting married! It was taking some time to process these tidings—how did this all come about when last she heard Mary and Sir Richard were as good as married and ready to occupy Haxby? She felt a slight twinge at being excluded from these revelations for so long. But there was no doubt: in between the lines she reread she could sense how deliriously excited her sister was to be marrying Matthew, and Sybil smiled. Then, hearing the trolley bell, she rushed from the post office to catch it. As she boarded and found a seat, she heard a commotion just outside the post office. Three lads were being accosted and lined up against the soot-stained brick wall by a group of four English soldiers. Sybil saw mothers with their children hurriedly crossing the street to the other side, and some onlookers hesitating, looking as though they wanted to intervene but instead hovered like ghosts, paralyzed by an unseen force: fear.

"What the fuck are you looking at, you filthy pig? Eyes down! Eyes down! Don't you dare look up at me!" blared the sergeant and he contemptuously brought his baton down on a boy who looked not older than eighteen. The lad held his arm up to fend off the blow and the baton glanced off his forearm and landed on his head. The force of the impact slashed open a gash and rust-colored blood started to seep into his blond hair. He staggered backwards and crumpled against the wall. His mates rushed to help him up, but two of the Tans jostled them into place along the wall. One got a knee in the stomach for his look of perceived insolence. The sergeant bellowed, "Right, I want your names and addresses."

The young men, heads bowed and arms raised, mumbled one by one while one of the Tans took notes in a small notebook. Another soldier marched back and forth, his coat swinging against his calves, looking for all the world like he needed just the smallest excuse to whip out his own baton.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," breathed the elderly woman sitting next to Sybil as she made the Sign of the Cross. Sybil heard the rattle of her rosary beads as the woman clutched them to her breast. "God help us."

_God help us, indeed_, thought Sybil, as her hand instinctively flew to her midsection. The trolley's loud bell rang for departure and then slowly the car made its way along the junction.


	3. In Between

**III. In Between**

The inky sky was paling to a smoky blue when Tom and his wife made their pre-dawn goodbyes to his mother and brother on the Dublin port, preparing to board the ferry bound for Liverpool. Ma Branson, sniffling and misty eyed, slipped off the St. Christopher medal on her neck and hung it onto Tom's. It was his father's medal, and his mother had kept it after he had died. "Patron saint of travelers, my boy. St. Christopher will protect you. You know the saying: 'Whoever shall behold the image of St. Christopher shall not faint or fall on that day.' " She gave Tom, and then Sybil, fierce hugs. Then she turned back to her son, holding his shoulders between her hands and with tenderness in her eyes. "You're doing your duty. Don't you forget that. You're doing the right thing." No one but a mother—even one who was a fierce republican herself—would understand the warring contradictions in Tom's heart. Last night's talk with her reinforced his belief that Sybil's and his decision to go superseded politics.

"Ma, let them board already," said his brother Tristan, as he suspiciously eyed some Tans patrolling the dock, rifles held aloft and their long cream coats flapping in the wind. Tom's quiet brother always walked around like maybe he knew something you didn't, and sometimes, that made him the target of the Tans' flinty-eyed stares.

"We'd best get on, Ma," Tom said, kissing her, and then, turning to Tristan, "Don't do anything I would do."

"Fat chance of that, little brother," he smiled and threw his wiry arms around him. Turning to Sybil, he gently embraced her and kissed her cheek. "Mind yourselves. Sybil, darlin', keep him out of trouble." He cocked his head towards Tom.

Sybil laughed, "I'll have my hands full keeping watch over him, and the baby!" Tom led her up the gangplank and she called, "Goodbye! I will write often. Please stay safe."

* * *

Having left Sybil resting in their cabin, Tom went topside near the bow and watched the rising sun unveiling shimmering streaks of pink and gold on the horizon. Sea spray felt cool and salty on his lips, and strong winds blew, boding well for a swift crossing. He inhaled the clean briny aroma of the sea and listened to the muffled rush and slap of the water against the sides of the ferry. Before him was a watery vista that had started out pewter near the shoreline, and then turned cobalt as Dublin receded from view. Against the rising sun, the waters of the sea winked and waved like a looking glass tilted to catch its reflective light.

Tom shivered in the wind and recalled his brother's parting words. When was he ever out of trouble? Trouble always seemed to find him and his hot-headed nature had always ruled him. How he was able to keep his job at Downton for so long—even after the incident in Ripon, the disastrous failed attack on the general—it was only by the grace of God that he'd been spared a much more severe fate. There, on the waters of the Irish Sea, a place in between, Tom cast a Janus-faced lens over recent events in his life. Despite the troubles in Dublin and the surrounding counties, he enjoyed being back home, amongst his own people. He was proud of the work he was doing at the _Times_, and considered himself an important part of promoting the republican cause. He loved coming home to Sybil, instead of to a cold cottage with only a glass of whiskey and newspapers for company. His marriage to her was the best thing he could claim to have won in England—no matter that their union may have been dismissed as eccentric, their life together was purposeful and, he believed, a happy one.

So the prospect of going back to Downton set Tom's teeth on edge, the idea that he was taking his wife to seek sanctuary at the very institution he'd been writing about and fighting against rankled him. Downton Abbey, and all that it stood for, with its toff inhabitants and their familiar, comforting world of 4 PM finger foods and sweets and tea. His mother had spoken of duty. Well, it was easy to do one's duty if there was no cost to it. In every man's life, there would come a time when it wouldn't be so easy. He would have to choose between his own principles and protecting the ones he loved. Suddenly he felt a hand on his arm, and seeing Sybil, reached over to cover it with his own.

"Hello," she smiled sleepily. "I woke up and you weren't there."

"Sorry, love. Just felt like getting some air."

Sybil's eyes, the color of the sea, searched his face. "I know that look. That is the face of Tom Branson when he's being pensive and moody."

One corner of his mouth curved up in a wry smile. "I'm feeling a little nervous about going back, is all. It will seem strange."

"Don't be. We're together in this, aren't we?" She gave his arm a loving squeeze. "Darling, I do so want us all to get on. Let's try to make the best of it." She looked over the sea. "That really is a marvelous sunrise." Sybil's smile, blissful and serene, put him at ease, and her radiance rivaled the rising sun in front of them.

He resolved to try to make a good show of it—for her. "Well, it's a big enough house. Maybe I can manage to avoid your family altogether and stay out of trouble."

She laughed and sidled close to him, her hair pulled back and secured only by a ribbon that now came loose and untied. The wind whirled underneath and through her curls, whipping long strands freely about. She gasped and gathered her hair in one hand. "When we get to Downton I'm getting this cut, once and for all!"

* * *

Tom was helping Sybil down the gangplank when they heard Edith loudly calling out to them. She was waving madly and rushed over, dodging other travelers, dockworkers, porters, and the piles of trunks and cases that barred a straight path. At a discreet distance behind her was a familiar green uniform, but the man inhabiting it was new. He moved slowly, with a noticeable limp. His face bore blotchy pink and flesh-colored scars, blurring his features to the point that parts of his nose and lips were indistinguishable. Edith embraced Sybil and squealed, "Look at you! You're huge!"

"Careful," Tom winked. "If I told her that I'd get the sharper end of her tongue for days."

Edith laughed and hugged Tom. "I'm so happy you've both come. Quite selfishly, I might add. I need someone else to keep Mary in check. Now that she's in the throes of wedding planning she's more insufferable than ever. She's driving me mad—no, no, Tom, let Harris get that."

Tom was collecting their trunks and parcels from the porter and was holding one of Sybil's smaller cases. "It's fine. I can help," he addressed the chauffeur.

Harris said, "I'll carry those, sir. It's no problem."

Tom insisted, "I can carry my wife's cases. They're not heavy."

"As you like, sir, but this is my job. I can handle it." Harris flatly replied, stony faced, and he put his hands behind his back.

Sybil and Edith paused in their animated chatter to look back at the two men locking horns over the luggage. Sybil said, "Tom, let the poor man get on with the luggage, please."

Tom started to feel self conscious and he hated feeling put on the spot. But he recognized the look in Harris' eyes. It was a brief one, for he had quickly cast his eyes down, but Tom knew it. In them he saw disillusionment, bitterness, and a touch of pride. "Of course. Thank you for your assistance."

Sybil turned back to Edith and she asked in a low voice, "Who is he?"

"He's a veteran of the war. Drove ambulances, I think. One day he came to the servants' entrance and asked Carson about a job, and of course Papa wasn't going to say no to a war hero who needed one."

Their eastward trek continued, now over land, and the car ride's conversation centered on their life in Dublin. Edith was a captive audience to Sybil's anecdotes on her nursing work and her daily routines, and she wistfully exclaimed how liberating it must be to have such practical and meaningful work. She noticed that Sybil carried herself with a much more mature demeanor. A little part of Edith longed for the innocence of the pre-war days when all that life demanded was a new doll or two, and a little pigtailed Sybil to play with. But her eyes shined with pride as she listened to Sybil's stories.

In the meantime, Tom's view from the rear was indeed a strange one. As he really didn't contribute much to the sisters' conversation besides an occasional "yes," and a nod of agreement, he couldn't help but cast hooded eyes at the back of Harris' head. How strange—this is what he, himself, must have looked like only last year. Back at the port, he had surreptitiously watched Harris stepping gingerly, transporting the trunks and cases with the help of the porter, and then hitching them to the car's boot and rooftop. He had seen from Harris' look that the man did not want his pity, nor did he appear interested in establishing a camaraderie with a former chauffeur.

"Oh! I always took this view for granted, and I've never appreciated how beautiful the house is!" exclaimed Sybil, blinking Tom out of his thoughts.

Edith craned her head to look outside the window. "The welcoming reception is in place."

As the car wound its way through the graveled driveway, Tom's stomach twisted in knots at sight of the familiar faces that waited to welcome them. A young blonde footman opened the car door and Tom's eyes darted from the beatific smile of Lady Grantham to Lord Grantham's thin-lipped smirk, to Mary's cheerful countenance just behind them. But what made Tom's heart skip a beat was the sight of black-clad servants all lined up at attention, straight as pins. None of their solemn, impassive faces looked at him, except for Anna, who smiled discreetly and Thomas, whose eyebrow simply quirked up. _Well,_ Tom thought, _let's see if I've truly left the skirmishes behind_.


	4. Babel

**IV. Babel**

If Sybil's nursing profession had given her any practical skills, it would be the sharpening of her own powers of observation. She could read a patient's signs of distress, even if he loudly protested that nothing was wrong. She could read the faces of children who felt pain but couldn't articulate exactly what was making them ache. She could pick up every grunt, every sudden intake of breath, and so honed this skill so finely, that she could come up with a diagnosis as well as any doctor could.

She also knew about poisons—the chemicals and powders that, if consumed or inhaled, could cause grievous bodily harm (or death!) to a person. These poisons could either be fast acting or slow to penetrate, eventually overpowering the immune system, leaving in its wake the destructive effects to the internal organs such as the heart and lungs.

There were also poisons that you couldn't see or taste or touch or smell, but they were just as insidious, and could affect the rhythms of your heart and your ability to breathe. But these could only be heard, and they were words, uttered by her father and grandmother at dinner tonight.

It was disastrous—they ate Tom alive.

She was partly to blame because she hadn't stood up for him. He had lost his temper once before, and once he got started he was like a fire that roared to life with just an igniting breath. Later he apologized to her and promised he'd do better job of keeping his temper in check. But now she was about to lose hers.

They had been at Downton for a month, and while the reactions to their arrival had been mixed, she was optimistic that over time everyone would settle in. Her American grandmother had come and gone for Mary's and Matthew's wedding, and during her visit, Sybil and Tom enjoyed a respite from the snide looks and verbal attacks usually slung towards them by Papa and Granny. With Grandmama's departure for stateside and Mary and Matthew now enjoying the afterglow of matrimonial celebrations, the household should have fallen back into its normal routines. But unfortunately, settling back into normalcy at Downton meant that Tom would again suffer the brunt of attack.

For thirty days, Sybil had watched and waited for their acceptance of her husband, and this dinner was the final straw. Tom's reactions to Papa's pejorative and patronizing remarks were politely deflective and measured, but she knew better. She watched him clearly trying to tamp down his growing irascibility. His smile had appeared strained and forced in response to Granny's exhaustingly constant cries for the old days and exhortations on the virtues of the aristocracy. He was getting better at navigating the intricacies of multi-coursed meals and the cutlery, and even learned to partake of port and madeira, though she knew he infinitely preferred a steak knife and fork and a measure of whiskey. But this—not being able to speak his mind freely, not being able to _be himself_, this was not her Tom. Sybil's lip curled in disgust.

The ladies had retreated to the drawing room, where she heard pleasantries exchanged—innocuous, honeyed conversation. Alfred and Carson glided about on silent feet, distributing digestifs on silver trays. She couldn't sit still so she ranged stealthily about the room, refusing invitations from Edith and Mary to play cards, and then from Cousin Isobel and Mama, no doubt wanting to regale her with updates on their charity work. Her eyes, watchful and weighted, kept darting to the door, almost as though willing it to open.

Granny noticed Sybil's restlessness. "How are you, dear? You look as though you're a dam about to burst."

Sybil replied, a touch too sharpish, "Dinner did not agree with me."

Mama paused in conversation with Isobel. "What's that, Sybil darling? Do you feel ill?"

"Yes. I am sick with shame at how poorly Tom was treated tonight." The ladies all stilled, smiles dimmed and echoes of laughter fading. Even the physically imposing Alfred cast his eyes down, looking like all he wanted was to shrink into the wallpaper.

The door opened and the men came through. Papa entered first, followed by Matthew, who shut the door behind him.

Sybil's eyes went beyond Matthew, and then she fixed a glare at her father. By now she was like a volcano about to erupt. "Where is my husband?"

Papa's brow furrowed. "He didn't join us for a drink. He pleaded a headache and went upstairs." He surveyed the room. "It feels suddenly very cold in here. What in the world's the matter?"

"Dinner was abominable," Sybil scowled. "I truly expected more from all of you, but I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I would've thought that Tom and I would be accepted by now, and that we wouldn't be subject to the attacks we seem to always be under. I've a mind to take trays in our room from now on!"

"Sybil, if what I said about the starving children upset you, I can't imagine why. It's all over the papers."

Her voice trembled and cracked a little, but not from fear. Eyes flashing, she vehemently retorted, "I'm more than upset! What you said was insulting. It's one thing to attack our politics but now you've made this about the baby and I'm offended. I almost wish he'd lost his temper again."

Mama rose, trying to placate Sybil. "Papa simply meant that he didn't want our grandchild to suffer, that's all."

"He said he didn't want my baby to be a statistic!"

Edith now pleaded above the shouting. "Sybil, please calm down."

"Tell me something," Papa demanded. "If he's got what it takes to be such a great provider, why is he constantly leaving you here, for days at a time off to London?"

Sybil tried to keep her voice even but it was getting more and more difficult. "You move your lips and yet nothing comes out. He's _working_, Papa. He's actually out earning a living so that our child _doesn't_ become a statistic. You know what having a job is like, don't you, Matthew?" she finished, with an icy stare at her brother-in-law.

Granny groaned and started furiously fanning herself. "Have we become plebeians, that we must talk of jobs and starving children?"

"Please don't fight," wailed Mary. "Matthew, say something!"

Flustered, Matthew shook his head. "I don't think we ought to exacerbate the situation."

"He's off drumming up propaganda for the rebels, more like." Papa turned towards Carson for a drink. "Enough of this Sybil. I mean it."

Sybil persisted and tried to face him. "I can assure you there are no wolves at my door. Do you think I don't see disappointment in your eyes when you look at me? Or rather my abdomen? Do you think I haven't heard the whispers of cruel county gossip about me and Tom? I could give a flying fig. What I despise is the hypocrisy and the pretense." Her eyes shifted meaningfully to Carson, implicating him, and he lowered his eyes. "It's infinitely better to be honest with your feelings than to try to pretend they're nobler than they really are."

"Sybil," her mother warned, and in that one word she conveyed a message that she ought to watch her tongue.

"You've always let her go on unabated like this. Why bother reining her in?" said Granny, and then to no one in particular, "What does it matter when no one ever listens to what I say anymore."

"What is it that bothers you, Father? Is it my marriage to the chauffeur? Or that I'm carrying his Fenian child? Or worse yet, that I have a job at a hospital caring for people who are victims of the bloody violence?" The air seemed to vibrate from the intensity of her words.

Her barb hit its mark and Papa tried to pull the fangs of her statement with a look of exaggerated patience. "Oh for pity's sake, they've brought it on themselves. The lawlessness isn't going to be tolerated. Our men are there to impose law and order."

"They are there picking on ordinary citizens minding their own business."

"And what have your precious republicans done but worsen the situation?" Papa roared and his next words were full of heat. "Those bastards are killing men who are trying to do their jobs. These are _veterans_ of the war we just bloody fought! They have sacrificed themselves on the battlefields and they continue to serve our country, doing a job our government has asked them to perform. They _do not_ deserve your scorn. You are still an Englishwoman."

Quietly, Sybil responded, "You haven't witnessed what I have."

"Honestly, Sybil I don't know what you want me to say. You work amongst these rebels, and I'd wager you wouldn't treat an English soldier if he were wounded."

"My job is to save lives, not take them."

"So long as they're Irish."

"No, so long as they're human."

Papa closed his eyes and ran a hand over his mouth. "I regret my poor choice of words at dinner tonight. I wasn't trying to bait Br—Tom." He held his palms out. "What do you want from me?"

Sybil's chin lifted and tears started in her eyes. All around her were silent expressions: Granny's with lips pursed; Papa's resigned; Mama's, Mary's and Edith's sad and concerned; and Isobel's and Matthew's uncomfortable. "It's simple. Give us our freedom. We will go home."

**x-x**

Back in his bedroom, Tom fought back the ghost of bitter disappointment. He shrugged off his dinner jacket and threw the wadded cloth at the full-length mirror, the unfortunate target of his unclenching anger. He ripped off his tie and threw that as well, not caring where it landed, and not caring that he was ruining a borrowed garment from Matthew. The suit was now black instead of green but it was a new sort of uniform that constrained him. He felt like he was being shoved into a glass box, a box that just kept getting smaller and smaller, and all the while the spectators continued to point and laugh.

A soft knock interrupted his private tirade and Jimmy poked his head in. "Mr. Carson informed me that you are retiring for the night, sir. Would you like me to help you dress?"

Tom whirled on him. "Goddamnit, I can fucking well dress myself! You tell Carson exactly that!"

Startled, Jimmy's eyes went wide and he pulled his head back like a retreating turtle, clicking the door shut behind him.

_Sanctimonious son of a bitch_, he thought as he recalled Lord Grantham's discourse on the Irish troubles. He almost wished he took the return train back to London this afternoon, but he promised Sybil he'd be back at Downton tonight for dinner. So many tart retorts lay still and died on the tip of his tongue, all because of a promise he made to her. What the hell had he been doing these past weeks—in between required attendance at Mary's and Matthew's pre-wedding parties and picnics, suit fittings, and the wedding itself? Not to mention Lord Grantham's own social engagements, where he was introduced as Lady Sybil's husband, no title, who worked in the news. All the ladies at dinner were covered in constellations but not his Sybil, who wore only a plain gold band and a borrowed necklace from Edith. He knew the jabs aimed at him only reminded him of what they _lacked_. The specter of her title continued to hover as long as they were here, even though she felt none of the weight of responsibility that Mary did, and wanted only the simplicity and independence of a life with him.

It was just as bad downstairs, with cool but polite receptions by Carson and Mrs. Hughes. No one really bothered to ask him how he'd been, except for Anna, whose questions were cut short as Mrs. Hughes ordered her back to work with a silent glare.

Well fuck them all. He rooted in his bureau for the packet of fags he stashed away and decided to go out for a smoke.

* * *

Once he entered through the green baize door it was like falling down the rabbit hole. Dinner was cleared in the dining room—he saw no footmen or maids scurrying about with dishes. He heard a babble of voices and giggles, and Mrs. Patmore's harried calls in the servants' hall, so it must be time for the staff to have their own supper.

"Hey, get that bowl!" an uncharacteristically shrill voice ripped through the narrow hallway. Daisy was glowering at Ivy, who startled and ran back into the kitchen. Daisy rolled her eyes and then gulped and reddened when she saw Tom. "Mr. Branson—I mean, your Lord—uh…"

"Daisy, 'Mr. Branson' is just fine."

"_Mr. Branson_, what can we do for you?" Mrs. Hughes seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. To Daisy, she asked, "Do you want your supper, or not?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes," and off she went into the servants' hall.

Tom smiled. "Well this is a familiar sight. Some new faces, but same routines. Like nothing's really changed."

"We try to cleave to routine in an ever-changing world, Mr. Branson. It's a comfort to us, no matter how loudly the drums beat for change."

"And spoken just as Mr. Carson would, Mrs. Hughes. Change is inevitable. It's only how you respond to it that makes it for the better or for worse."

"Well I'm not one for pretty philosophical phrasing. And I would like my own dinner. If you didn't need anything?" It was a dismissal—she clearly didn't want to talk to him.

"No. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. Just going out for some air."

She frowned. "In the servants' yard? Surely you may walk the grounds or visit the pavilion?"

"The servants' yard would suit me just fine."

"As you like."

Tom headed for his old spot near the shed but saw that plumes of smoke were already emanating from the area. As he approached, he paused, for he had gotten within earshot of the prickly tones of O'Brien. "I, for one, am bloody sick of it. I have more work than Anna, now that I have to do Mrs. Branson," she said contemptibly.

"Lady Sybil seems pretty capable of fending for herself," replied Thomas.

"Lady? Please! Have you seen the state of her hands? Disgusting—they look like Daisy's! Her Ladyship might be a working woman herself but her hands aren't cracked and her nails aren't ragged like that."

"Oh, come off it," Harris gruffly retorted. "Job's a job. You should just do it, no questions asked."

"Spoken like a true soldier," grumbled O'Brien. "Doesn't help the way I feel."

"If you don't like it, why don't you tell Her Ladyship," said Thomas. "But I can understand how you feel. Personally I'd slit my throat if I was told to dress Branson."

"I probably would, too," Tom said, stepping into the trio's conversation. "So thank God I don't have you touching me, Thomas."

"What are you doing here!" demanded O'Brien. "Piss off!"

"Having a smoke, like you."

Her eyes went skyward. "Are we never to have any peace?"

"What, can't I smoke here?"

"You're welcome to it, sir," said Harris, tossing his cigarette stub on the ground. "I'm off to get my supper."

"Ugh, my appetite is ruined," said O'Brien, and with a flinty look of resentment she flicked the butt of her cigarette and aggressively ground it under her heel before following Harris.

Tom knew he was invading the servants' private domain. Feeling unmoored and unwelcome, he was about to continue down the path towards the chauffeur's cottage when Thomas, with a sideways glance, offered him a match. He accepted the light and took a drag. "So you'd rather kill yourself than dress me but you're fine with dressing Lord Grantham. For a man who seemed to be on the lookout for the next best thing, I'm surprised you're still in service."

Thomas, who continued to smoke placidly, did not apologize for being overheard. "Well, striking out on your own isn't as easy as one would think it is—even for veterans of the war."

"It's not easy for anyone," Tom exhaled.

Thomas' eyes shifted slightly to the left. "You shouldn't let anyone bother you—myself included. You remember how imperious Carson can get, so let him sneer."

"I don't like to fight, but I'm not scared to bleed. I can hold my own."

Suddenly, there came a sound of rapid footsteps crunching on the gravel and labored breathing. An ashen-faced Alfred panted, "Please come, sir. Lady Sybil has taken ill!"


	5. Darkness Before Dawn

**V. Darkness Before Dawn**

_She is falling. It is a weightless sensation that feels more confusing than frightening and it seems endless. A series of undulating colored lights—ruby, emerald, indigo—plays along the surface of her closed lids. She hears an echo of Papa protesting the calls for Clarkson. She remembers the tea-colored morning light as she had stood on the ferry deck and the cool touch of Tom's hand. The sun-soaked scene dims, not a trace of the gold and glimmer is left behind. She calls out to Papa, and her voice sounds as though she is far away: "Where is my husband?"_

The combination of nicotine and spiked adrenaline shooting through Tom's veins enabled him to match Alfred's gazelle-like pace, stride for stride. He heard agitated murmurs from faces in the servants' hall as he ran through the corridor. At the end of it he saw Harris hurriedly buttoning his chauffeur's jacket, nodding at the ever-unflappable Carson instructing him to fetch Dr. Clarkson. Tom rushed up the stairs two at a time, and he and Alfred burst through the green baize door, pausing in the foyer. Alfred looked about, looking unsure of where to lead Tom next. A sense of unease was pressing heavily on Tom. "What happened?" he asked breathlessly.

Alfred licked his lips and spoke carefully, considering every word just before he uttered it, as though he didn't want to cross a line of telling just the facts and telling tales of family friction. "She just crumpled, sir, in the drawing room. She pitched forward holding her stomach. Lord Grantham was picking her up from the floor when I went to look for you."

Chilly fingers ran up Tom's spine as he rushed up the grand staircase and burst into their bedroom. The first thing he saw was red. It was everywhere—stark on the white sheets and towels. Isobel, Mary, and Cora swarmed about, like bees around their queen, carrying towels and bowls of steaming water. Did all this blood come from his wife? "Sybil?" he croaked, approaching their bed, where he beheld his feverish wife lying there, hair stringy and plastered to her forehead. Her face was as white as the pillowcase she lay on. Edith was sitting on the edge of the bed, pressing a small wet cloth to Sybil's forehead.

"What…what happened? She was fine at dinner." Tom sat at the opposite edge and took Sybil's hand. The pungent copper smell of blood and sweat assaulted his nostrils. He looked up at Edith and around at the ladies. Bile was rising in his throat and he searched for answers in the faces of her sisters and mother, who only answered him with worried, frantic looks. "Will someone please tell me what's going on?" he demanded.

Isobel laid a hand on his shoulder. "She's in labor, Tom. We're waiting for Dr. Clarkson but I'm certain that her emotional state earlier brought on her labor pains."

"Her emotional state?" Tom was perplexed.

Shame-faced, Cora explained, "She was agitated in the drawing room. There was a heated argument between her and her father."

"Oh my God," Tom breathed and he gripped Sybil's hand tighter. Sweat glazed her face and he watched her eyes darting beneath her lids. "_Ma mhuirnín_ can you hear me?" At the sound of his voice, she opened her eyes. But her expression was vague and glassy and she looked as though she were seeing right through him. His heart started beating frantically and he looked up at Isobel. "Is she in tremendous pain? Has she been given anything? What about the baby?"

"Her water's broken, but I didn't want to risk giving her anything till the doctor gets here. We've just been trying to make her as comfortable as possible until then. I don't really know much more," Isobel said, trying to sound reassuring.

Village surgeon Richard Clarkson arrived, looking hastily dressed, for his coat was unbuttoned. Immediately Isobel went over to apprise him of the situation. Both Edith and Tom rose and joined Cora and Mary in the corner, as doctor and nurse continued speaking in hushed tones while they examined Sybil.

Tom looked at the skin on the back of his hand. White half moons were imprinted on them, a mark of the force with which Sybil clutched him. He folded his arms brazenly across his chest, and his eyes darted between Cora, Mary, and Edith. "I keep asking the same question over and over. I'm still not getting a complete picture as to how this all came about." He tried hard to keep the accusatory inflection from his voice but at this point he didn't care if he was successful.

Cora briefly lowered her eyes and took a deep breath. "Sybil and Lord Grantham argued over the discussion at dinner. She let him know she took offense to how he was speaking to you. They were shouting at one another, and we all tried to calm everyone down."

Edith cast her distraught gaze from Cora to Tom. "Everything happened so fast. It's all a bit of a blur. The next thing we knew was that she cried out and fainted into Papa."

"I'm so, so sorry," said Mary, laying a hand on Tom's arm. "This all never should have happened."

Cora hastened to add, "I know my husband appears insensitive at times, and I apologize for how that comes across to you."

Dr. Clarkson and Isobel approached them, their faces grave and impassive. "Please come into the corridor," said Dr. Clarkson. Tom studied his face for clues on his diagnosis, and he found none.

_She is submerged in water—it is coming out of her pores and between her legs. But she feels lighter. There is less pressure on her ribcage and she feels strangely like she could breathe on her own underwater. She briefly wonders, how are they no longer on the ferry? The turquoise waters are so clear and she sees Tom and smiles, swimming towards him. He returns her smile as he reaches for her hand, but he doesn't hold it for long. The waters turn dark, obscuring him from her sight. Her teeth are now chattering, and she clenches and unclenches them. Now it is harder to stay afloat and she feels heavy and slow. "Where is my husband? Tom, please, I need you."_

In the corridor Robert paced and Violet stood, her hands pressing down on her cane—both anxiously awaiting news.

Dr. Clarkson began, "Lady Sybil is definitely in labor, but there's no evidence of the baby's crowning or movement in her abdomen."

Edith whimpered and Mary's hand flew to her mouth.

"I'm afraid this means the baby is in a breech position, meaning the feet, and not the head, are at the entrance of the birth canal. There's a good possibility of the baby experiencing an umbilical cord prolapse. This means that if I don't perform a caesarian the oxygen supply to the baby diminishes and the result can be brain damage."

Robert huffed, "I want a second opinion before you cut my daughter open. I don't trust you."

"Please let Dr. Clarkson do his job," pleaded Cora.

"Robert, I can offer you a second opinion, and he's right. We can't turn the baby," Isobel added. "If we could, there would be no need for surgery."

Visibly stiff and lips pursed, Dr. Clarkson addressed Tom. "We can't lose any time. The longer we wait the more at risk the baby and Lady Sybil are. Mr. Branson, it is ultimately your call. What would you have us do?" Tom could feel all the eyes, solicitous and watchful, in that corridor as he considered. Multitudinous faces awaited his answer, and only Robert's was troublingly stubborn.

_She is now in searing, overwhelming pain and her insides are falling out. Sharp, unpleasant sensations rip through her lower half, starting from her abdomen and shooting through to her calves. Her breath comes in ragged gulps and it feels as though someone is blocking her air passages. Salt water trickles out of her nose and eyes and her voice sounds raw and sandy. "Tom, why have you abandoned me?" Time seems to have stopped._

In the dimly lit corridor it was quiet. Robert had escorted Violet downstairs so that she could be driven back to the Dower House. The ladies had gone back inside to assist Dr. Clarkson in delivering the baby. Cora had ventured a small smile and a reassuring squeeze of his hand before she had closed the door, and said, "It will be a long night, Tom. I'll have Mary talk to Anna about preparing the guest room for you."

"Wait, Cora." He pulled the St. Christopher medal from his neck and pressed it into her palm. "Please put this on my wife. Please pray that she shall not be taken from me this day." Cora nodded and clicked the door shut.

Tom leaned against the wall opposite the closed door, fists buried in his pockets to stop the trembling. When he heard Sybil's piercing and unearthly cries he pressed a clenched fist to his mouth and sank to the floor. He looked up at the coffered ceiling, for only the Earls of Grantham could justify the expense of detailing a corridor ceiling, and closed his eyes. He thought of her face, the last time when her eyes met his at tonight's dinner. They told him, "Not a word, Tom. Do not lose your temper." Now as each moan and wail pierced his heart he felt frustratingly powerless. He linked his fingers together and bowed his head. His prayer started as a bargain, because isn't that what everyone did when they wanted something and promised penitently to do something in return? But midcourse in his appeal to the angels and saints, he addressed God Himself. "Father, I can't pretend to understand all the tests and suffering we've been asked to endure. Why my people suffer, and why my wife suffers tonight. But my human understanding gets in the way of accepting Your will, so Father, if it is Your will to have my wife and my child join you now, allow me the peace of acceptance." His whispered prayer held a hint of despair that he hoped wouldn't be heard.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and he raised a tear-streaked face to Robert crouching next to him, a look of sympathy in his eyes. "I've waited in this corridor four times myself. It doesn't get easier, nor does it help to hear her scream. Let me offer you a drink."


	6. An Allegory of Names

**VI. An Allegory of Names**

"Like bloody hell I'm going anywhere with you," Tom spat, and stood up, running a palm over his face. He tried to gain some composure. "If it wasn't for your argument with her, Sybil wouldn't be in labor like this." Eyes slit with spite, he did not bother to hide an obvious note of resentment in his voice.

Robert also stood, chin lifted and his mouth drawn in a thin line. Indignant at the rebuffed invitation, he said, "That's a pity." He raised a hand to ward off the angry heat of Tom's response, "Let's not lock horns in the corridor. At least with a drink in your hand you may have something to throw at my face."

Tom took a deep breath. He had some misgivings, but he could do with a drink; his mouth felt dry and it was hard to swallow. But on continuing to hear Sybil's loud, plaintive cries on the other side of the bedroom door a strand of fear moved across his chest. "It's agony not being in there with her."

"Trust me. It's better if you don't wait here," Robert softly persisted. A different tone had crept into his voice and Tom was decided.

As they entered the drawing room, Tom cast his eyes about. He had been in it a few times since being back at Downton, but tonight, with the lights dimmed and no lingering traces of it even being the scene of Sybil's collapse, he couldn't help but remember another time when he and Sybil had caused another commotion. He had burst in and they boldly announced their plans to marry and live in Dublin. The events emerged fresh from his store of memories, and he recalled the heat of dispute with this very man he was about to share a drink with. The room hadn't really much changed, except there was now a multitude of dense crystal vases that spilled over with flowers that sunned in the blaze of the fireplace, not from the natural light that was barred from entry by thick velvet curtains. The fragrance of the fading flowers only added to the claustrophobic atmosphere, a heaviness that one felt when too many tragic ghosts were trapped in a place.

Carson was standing at the side table wiping a bottle of whiskey with a white cloth. "The whiskey you ordered is here, Milord. Just wiping some of the dust from the bottle, as I didn't have time to properly pour this into the crystal. I hope the bottle is acceptable."

"Perfectly all right, Carson. Thank you. That will be all for tonight."

Carson bowed a good night to Robert, and then pointedly standing in front of Tom, he inclined his head and bowed to him as well. He left, closing the door silently behind him.

Robert poured a finger of whiskey into a crystal tumbler. "Whiskey all right?"

"Thank you, sir," Tom said, taking the short glass of carnelian liquid. With a practiced flick of the wrist down it went, and he relished the feeling of it burn a swath down his throat to his stomach. He wanted to drink glass after glass until he achieved a superb, shimmery calm but getting intoxicated tonight was not an option, not in front of Grantham. Unsure of even whether to sit, he put a hand in his pocket and held his empty glass.

Robert poured himself a glass and refreshed Tom's drink. He settled into one of the sofas and motioned for Tom to sit. "Have you chosen names for the baby?"

Tom frowned. Emboldened by whiskey, he dispensed with the niceties. "Forgive me, your Lordship, but for a month I've gotten nothing but veiled insults and grunts that barely pass for reactions from you. Even just this evening I had to listen to your polite reminders of how poorly I'm providing for my wife and child, even that my family could end up being counted as one of the starving Irish. So to tell you the truth I'm a little suspicious that now, you care about what this child is even called."

"Just so. Listen…Tom—"

"For God's sake you can't even get over not calling me Branson, like I'm still your driver!" He rose. "Keep your drink. I'm going back upstairs." He slid the glass on the side table, sloshing some of the whiskey onto the lacquered surface.

"Please." Robert stood up abruptly and stayed him with a hand on his arm. "Please sit, Tom. I am asking you as a father."

Something strange and unfamiliar to Tom hung in Robert's changed tone, and it prompted Tom to sit back down. He waited.

Robert sat and swirled his drink. "Did Sybil ever tell you how she got her name?" Tom shook his head. "Mary and Edith are family names. They are solid, conventional, traditional English names. They are names that…that were sort of _expected_ to be conferred on the daughters of the House of Grantham. The thing about my elder two daughters that I would never have previously admitted aloud, is that I wasn't around during their formative years. It's no question that I love them, but I was always busy, running the estate, honoring my social engagements—playing the expected role of earl. But I wasn't present for Edith's first step, and Mary had that look about her whenever she saw me, as though she didn't recognize me sometimes. I'd have given my eyeteeth to start again with them. Those missing moments hurt my heart. Because you realize that you are a stranger to your own children."

Robert set his glass aside and twisted the ring on his small finger. "But Sybil was going to be different, you see. When she came along, it was as though she brought me a message from the gods: You have another chance, another opportunity to be the kind of father you've aspired to be and hadn't yet realized. When she came I knew there was no other name I wanted for her." He chuckled. "Cora was quite surprised by my choice, but I thought it was perfect."

"I know you have a penchant for mythology, sir."

"Yes…Greek, Egyptian…." He reached for his glass and swallowed the rest of his whiskey. "Irony of all ironies, from babyhood Sybil never needed me. She was the easiest to love because she cared the least. I suppose that's why I was more indulgent with her than with Mary or Edith. Do you know, she actually pushed my hand away when she was learning to balance herself and walk?" He looked pointedly at Tom. "You don't know what it feels like to know your child doesn't need you. You want so much to be a hero in her eyes, to hold her trust, her respect, her hope, and her love. I feel I have that with Edith—she's always sought my approval. With Mary, she seems tough on the outside but she would count herself as her daddy's girl. With Sybil…." he sighed. "Your children will break your heart. You'll understand this when you realize they no longer need you. And it's nice to feel needed. It never was about you." He peered into at his now empty glass and set it on the side table.

After a long pause, Tom offered, "If it's a girl, I'd like the name Saoirse."

Robert looked up. "Seer-sha," he enunciated.

Tom chuckled. "Close enough. It means 'independence.'"

"I see," Robert paused. "It's lovely."

Tom shrugged. "Sybil prefers traditional English names, so I feel I'll be overruled."

"And if it's a boy?"

"We've had some discussions on that score," Tom said, not wanting to admit that Sybil had "Robert" on the short list.

"You love my daughter very much," It was phrased as a statement, but in the words there hung a hint of a question.

"She is not the first girl I ever loved but she will be the last. Sir, our life is not a fairy tale, but you must know that she will never want for anything, so long as it's in my power to provide for her—and whoever else comes along."

* * *

He must have fallen into a dreamless sleep. He opened blurry eyes to Mary trying quietly to pull open the heavy drapes. The ragged moonlight had softened slowly into a cold gray dawn. She turned from the windows, looking weary and haggard, and her dress was stained wet at the front. "Carson said I might find you here."

Tom stirred, and ran his hands over his sleep-creased shirt and tousled hair. His mouth tasted as dry as straw and his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth. "How is Sybil? And the baby?"

Mary came over and sat next to him on the sofa. "Sybil is resting. She pulled through just fine." She beamed. "You have a baby girl, Tom."


	7. Independence

**VII. Independence**

Sharp taps and an elongated wail that did not abate for several minutes were music to Sybil's ears. Physically spent and aching to close her eyes for some well-earned sleep, she kept fatigue at bay until she could see both the baby and Tom. She mustered what reserves of strength she had left as she hoarsely whispered, "Let me see my baby."

Cousin Isobel finished bathing and swaddling the still-crying infant. "This little one's got some strong lungs."

Mama helped Sybil sit up and smoothed her hair from her face. "Well done my darling. You were so very brave. I'm proud of you."

Curious and excited, Mary and Edith hung about at the head of the bed as Cousin Isobel laid the baby in Sybil's waiting arms. "Oh, Sybil, she's beautiful," they cooed. "Our niece!"

"She? It's a girl?" Sybil gasped as she took her first look at her first child, a tiny being who settled naturally in the crook of her arm. "Oh, hello," she crooned. "Welcome, my dear, sweet _leanbh_." The child squirmed inside the soft blankets, and as though she knew she was safely ensconced in her mama's arms, she opened her mouth not to cry anymore, but to yawn. She was peachy smooth, not pink or wrinkled, as she had not passed through the birth canal. Sybil couldn't stop staring at her daughter and she was caught up in an overflow of feeling. It was in some ways similar to what she felt when she looked at or thought of Tom, but a little different—somewhere between protective and maternal. She felt like she had just gone through hell, but upon looking at that small face she felt like she could do it again if this was the result. She looked up at the tired, but smiling faces of her mother, cousin and sisters. "Where's Tom? He must see her."

Mary said, "I'll find him."

Dr. Clarkson, wiping his hands and forearms on a clean white towel, announced, "She's one hundred percent healthy, Lady Sybil. But now, you must get some rest. Your body's gone through major trauma. I insist that Mr. Branson see you for just five minutes and that you get some sleep. I'll be back in the afternoon and we can talk about instructions for your post-operative care and nursing then. Let's clear out now, shall we? I'm sure all of us could do with some rest ourselves."

Everyone started to shuffle out of the room. Mama smiled and kissed Sybil, and then ever the hostess, offered Dr. Clarkson some tea and breakfast before he departed. "Congratulations, Sybil," Edith said as she stifled a yawn of her own.

"I'll stay and change the bedding," volunteered Cousin Isobel.

The first time her baby was taken from her arms Sybil's heart broke a little, and her eyes jealously followed Isobel as she carried her to a bassinet and gently laid her inside.

"Now, let me first help you into a fresh gown," said Isobel, rummaging through Sybil's bureau drawers for a clean nightdress. "Tom should stay only a short while. You need to sleep after what you'd gone through."

Some minutes later, still valiantly fighting off the fatigue as she waited for Tom, Sybil was sitting in a chair next to the bassinet, holding the sleeping baby. Isobel was rapidly and efficiently changing the sheets, when there was a soft knock at the door and Sybil perked up.

Mary peered in. "I've brought your husband. Is it all right to come in?"

Energetically, Sybil replied, "Yes, of course!"

"Five minutes, Sybil," reminded Isobel and she and Mary started off to get some rest themselves. "She's a fine-looking, healthy child, Tom. Congratulations," she patted his arm as she passed him.

Sybil's heart leaped when she finally saw the face of her husband, even in all his dishabille.

"How are you, my love?" Tom rushed over to her and cupped her face, thumb stroking her cheek.

Sybil held his wrist and kissed his palm, then leaned her cheek into his hand. "I'm exhausted," she smiled wanly. "But look who's arrived." Tom swallowed and nervously looked at the sleeping baby in her arms. "Would you like to hold your daughter Saoirse?"

Tom pressed his lips together, and his eyes flickered from the sleeping bundle to Sybil. "Really?" he said in a low voice, incredulous not at the prospect of holding his daughter, but at the chosen name, and Sybil smiled and nodded. He cradled Saoirse and peeled back a fold of the blanket. "I thought I knew what unconditional love was, but I really understand it now." He couldn't help it: he had to look at every detail of his child's face, and her entire body—from her soft downy head to her fingers and toes, counting them all to make sure there were twenty in all. Saoirse uncurled her fingers and gripped Tom's small finger. Overcome with emotion, he leaned in to kiss Sybil. "Thank you."

"What for?"

"You have given me everything a man could hope for in a family. Your love, and our child."

* * *

Over four hundred fifty kilometers across the waters of the Irish Sea, the struggle for independence also demanded Tom's attention. Only two days after the birth of his daughter, Tom traveled back to London to attend the reconvention of Parliament. He was especially tasked with covering the debates in the House of Lords over the introduction of another piece of legislation for home-rule governance—in Tom's opinion, a fourth attempt by the English to strangle Ireland's ability to truly stake a claim for independence.

The Dáil Éireann, the government of the Irish Republic, had been outlawed by the British in autumn 1919, but the republicans continued to recognize their parliament—pledging their allegiance by taking the Oath to the Republic. Doing so was considered dangerous and treasonous, as those who had were branded by the British as traitors. But as the year 1920 drew to a close, British rule was already plummeting to a low point. Britain struggled to reassert control over Ireland, and its unforgiving attempts to quell the hostilities initiated by the Dáil were met with equal explosiveness. Under the leadership of Eamon de Valera and Michael Collins, who adopted a guerilla approach to warfare, the violence was initially defensible amongst the Irish people, as they perceived British actions against republicans and civilian population capricious and arbitrary.

Late October and early November had been particularly bloody in terms of civilians caught in the skirmishes between the Irish Republican Army, Royal Irish Constabulary, and the Black and Tans. A week of especially brutal police violence erupted in retaliation for RIC men who were kidnapped and presumed killed by the IRA, and whose bodies were never found. Harrowing stories abounded of battered priests and rag-doll corpses drenched in blood tossed in shallow graves, and of women and children killed in the crossfire of stray bullets. British military courts of inquiry caused a public sensation when they promptly closed superficial investigations with verdicts of "death by misadventure."

It is impossible to ignore the impact of words carefully chosen for their weight, force, and clarity. No one else understood this better than Tom. His daily correspondence to Stewart consisted of detailed, typed reports on these Parliamentary proceedings, and he occasionally enclosed finished opinion editorials (not drafts) ready for Stewart's consideration. Stewart confirmed that the long-standing calls for home rule by the nationalists were by now an incendiary demand for complete independence. Stewart's return correspondence included clippings of Tom's published editorials along with checks in payment for the pieces. Tom felt gratified that Stewart found the pieces more often than not worthy of publication. The last piece of correspondence contained not just a clipping and a check, but also a small card addressed to "Mrs. Branson." When Tom saw it he smiled to himself and thought that underneath it all, Stewart really did have a beating heart like the rest of them.

In his modest boarding house room, one that was inconveniently situated too far from Westminster, but was within what he could afford on his meager per diem, Tom reviewed his essentials for the day. Session schedule, press card, notebooks, pens, and last night's bits of steak stuffed between two slices of bread tucked in paper. He checked his pocket watch. 45 minutes. Three quarters of an hour away from the continuing debates on his nation's future. Tom hastily gulped the rest of his tea. If he left now, he could catch a tram to central London and be on time to hear the roll call in the House of Lords Chamber.

The wet smell of late November weather in London was more oppressive than it was in Yorkshire. The relentless fog cast a gloom over Tom's days, made even grayer by quiet lonely nights without Sybil. He pulled his overcoat close, trying to ward off the sharp stinging wind that prompted him to hurry inside the Palace of Westminster. Inside the lavishly decorated gold and red chambers of the Upper House, he threaded a path to the press area. He nodded a greeting to some of his peers, acknowledging representatives from _Freeman's Journal, The Irish Independent, _and_ The Times _of London. They nodded back, some with tight, courteous smiles. A journalist from the _Daily Mail_, who perceived Tom's presence there as a deliberate provocation, menacingly muttered as he passed, "Ruddy mick." In no mood for disruptive, unpleasant exchanges today, Tom made his way to a vacant vermilion bench, without a backward comment.

"Pay no mind to that bully Braddock. He hasn't had his drink this morning." Cillian Kennedy, from the _The Irish Independent, _threw his bulky form onto a space next to Tom with a loud thump.

Tom smiled and paused in taking out his notebook and pens. "How are you Cillian?"

"If I'm honest I'm thirsting for a drink myself." He stretched languidly and the buttons on his wrinkled overcoat strained to keep the fabric together over his barrel chest. "But I have to be here listening to these toffs go on about whether to fuck…ing…give...us…our…land…back." Kennedy leaned forward and cast a disparaging look at the gathering members.

Kennedy noticed Tom's preparations. "Look at you. Always so neat with your notebooks and pens," he smirked.

"Well if I had a photographic memory I wouldn't need all these notebooks, would I?" Tom quirked an eyebrow up.

"How's that bastard Stewart?"

Tom grinned. "As much of a bloody bastard as he's always been."

"I don't envy you. I would hate to work for that son of a bitch, but he's a damned smart man."

"To be fair, he runs a tight desk. I am learning a lot from him."

Kennedy yawned. "This is going to be a long day. Hey, fancy joining me later for a pie and pint for supper?"

* * *

The ambient light and friendly atmosphere at The Olde Cheshire Cheese, made warmer by the attentive and almost flirtatious smiles of a ginger-haired barmaid, enabled Tom to relax. The heavy weight of the day's proceedings started to lift with the consumption of bottomless pints enhanced by the acerbic humor of his companion. For most people, when pint after pint is consumed, conversation flows more uninhibitedly. But that was not the case with Kennedy, as he grew more sober as he drank. He took a sip of his third pint. "Did you hear the news about O'Connor, from your paper?"

Tom steeled himself. Kevin O'Connor was a dogged reporter, a father of five, and one of the journalists recently assigned to cover the conflicts in County Clare before he and Sybil left Dublin. If something grave had happened to him, Stewart had made no mention of it in his letters. "No, what happened to him?"

"He was taken by the fucking Tans. Didn't recognize his press status. They stripped him in jail and beat him to a bloody pulp. He sustained nerve damage so severe he can't even bring himself to write an account of his ordeal. Too close and too raw."

Tom's face registered shock. And then pity, for O'Connor and his family. And finally anger, which gathered in the well of his chest and forced the muscles in his jaw to clench. That could have easily been him, dragged and strung up in a dank jail cell. "How is what we're doing courageous and honorable when we're humiliated like this?" he spluttered. "We should not have to accept this."

Kennedy took another sip. "Our path to freedom has yet to run smooth," he pointed out. "Anything worth fighting for is never going to be easy to win. And there will always undoubtedly be blood spilled in war."

"How long are we going to have to put up with this, Cillian?" Tom shook his head and leaned back in his chair. "It's getting to the point where working men, women, children…the clergy, even, are getting caught up in the violence."

"I don't know," Kennedy said after a long pause. "I really don't know. You were there today—you saw how grossly out of touch the English are with realities back home. But we can't give up, Tom. We are 'the rightful rulers of our own destiny,'" he said, quoting one of the tenets of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. "It is our natural, God-given right to be free, and that right could be won only by force."


	8. At a Crossroads

**VIII. At a Crossroads**

"If she can't do as the Romans do here at Downton Abbey, then she might as well go back home!" cried Mrs. Hughes as she soundly complained to Carson in his office behind a tightly shut door. It had been two weeks since Saoirse's birth and Mrs. Hughes' good humor had been quickly fading.

"I understand your frustration, Mrs. Hughes," Carson replied, with a hand to her forearm, possibly to stop his usually affable and professional counterpart from flinging her arms about his face again. "I know you meant well, and any other lady would have appreciated your proactive inquiries." He sat down behind his desk and Mrs. Hughes began to pace the short length of his office, apparently not soothed by his attempt to calm her. "I'm mortified that she turned away that young woman without an interview, when she took all morning to travel two villages down to get here."

Mrs. Hughes paused in her pacing, encouraged by Carson's sympathies, and huffed, "And that's not all! She said she hadn't _asked_ for a nanny so why was she going to waste anybody's time by ringing for tea and having a conversation with a complete stranger about a position she knew wouldn't be filled." She wagged her finger and added almost venomously, "I swear, Mr. Carson, she's become bad mannered. If you ask me, she's lost her good breeding since she's left home."

"Now, Mrs. Hughes," Carson cleared his throat and held his palm out, fearing that she was teetering on dangerous territory.

By now nothing was going to stop Mrs. Hughes from speaking her mind. "No, I mean it. She doesn't ring for Anna to get the baby's milk. She goes to the kitchen _herself_—upsetting Mrs. Patmore—and you _know_ she doesn't like anyone touching her stove. She gets underfoot of Daisy and Ivy and the other scullery girls."

"I hadn't heard this!"

"Not to mention she uses Mrs. Patmore's copper kettles so she could warm huge amounts of water for the baby's baths. Doesn't want the water from the taps, she says, and wants to make sure the baby bathes in purified water."

"Well, now, that's perfectly understandable. And really, when are you so much concerned with Mrs. Patmore and her kitchen staff? It's not like the two of you have any lost love over the running of the kitchens…."

Mrs. Hughes's lower lip protruded and she glared at Carson. "I'd have thought you'd be on my side. You pride yourself on the operations of this household. This house has been turned on its ear ever since she and her husband have been here. Don't you find it actually _more_ work when they insist on doing things themselves? I heard Jimmy grumbling when he and Alfred were moving a cot into the nursery."

Carson took a deep breath. "I _am_ on your side." He leaned back in his chair. "But I'm afraid that the more we resist change, the more of an uphill battle we fight. I'm beginning to realize it will never be the same as it was before the war." His last words held a note of nostalgia for the pre-war days and Mrs. Hughes felt a bit remorseful at burdening him with her outburst. She settled into a chair in front of his desk.

"So what do we do? We still have to do our jobs."

Carson straightened and pulled on his waistcoat. "We must bear up as best we can. Our saving grace is that Mr. and Mrs. Branson will eventually go back to where they belong. And then we can get back to normal."

**x-x**

_Normal _would not be the word Sybil would use to describe her life at Downton Abbey these past few months. In fact, it was just the opposite. A more apt word might also be: _Smothering. Asphyxiating. Boring._ The longer she stayed in England the more she became aware that it was no longer the haven she thought it would be. Not failing to notice the pursed lips and curt "Yes, Lady Sybil" responses from both Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore, she knew she was upsetting them with her bizarre and unorthodox requests. And despite the spaciousness within Downton's ochre walls Sybil actually felt constricted. The tedious days of having nothing on her agenda, no routines to follow, irked her. So time on her hands made Sybil more contemplative. She felt very much like the time when the Great War was over, her nursing duties done, and she was faced with endless tomorrows that started to look very much alike. Now she was reminded of another, more compelling reason why she wanted to leave and marry Tom. It wasn't just because she loved him and didn't want to be separate in proximity and class from him anymore, but also because she knew a life with him would be freer than a life at Downton or any other English estate. More than anything, she needed to go back to work. Spending her time at shops and on social calls were not activities she considered productive uses of her time. She longed to don her gray uniform again, especially knowing that it would now fit, and even missed the stinging, pungent smells of antiseptic and medicines. Her father had predicted that her life would be very different from the one she had had previously, and that certainly was the life she preferred above all.

So she was determined to regain her physical strength as soon as possible. When Dr. Clarkson advised her to stay inside and to take as many quiet lie-ins as possible, Sybil did just the opposite. That was a post-operative prescription more suited for ladies. She considered herself a hardy person with a strong constitution, so she took walks with Saoirse outside as frequently as she could if the weather was fine.

Her baby never ceased to amaze her. In a minute, Saoirse could turn from producing beautiful lilting gurgles to chaotic squalls. But in all ways, she was her heart's delight. Almost everyone in the family doted on Saoirse, but troublingly, her baby's arrival seemed to have little effect on her father. On the afternoon after her arrival, Papa had come into her room once to see the baby and congratulate her but he didn't stay long, not even attempting to hold her when Mama offered Saoirse to him. He had excused himself, and said he had business to attend to. She felt a stab of hurt that after their argument there was still no closure and it was especially cutting that even now Papa stayed distant and cool. _Well, there was nothing to be helped for it,_ she thought. _Maybe someday he will come around, and __**both**__ Tom and I will welcome him back with open arms._

Being with Edith cheered her, since Mary spent most of her time with Mama learning the ropes of being the wife of the heir. Edith's recent engagement with Sir Anthony Strallan put her in such jovial spirits, and it was infectious. However, it pained Sybil to bear witness to both of her sisters' wedding preparations with lavish spending at Ripon boutiques and special orders from the House of Worth. She couldn't believe that Edith would spend a week considering the weight of invitation stock. When she thought back to her own pre-wedding days she was scrubbing her mother-in-law's floors and washing and ironing curtains, preparing the Branson house for the modest reception. But at the core Edith was more mindful of what really mattered. Sybil loved both of her sisters, but she noticed that Mary was the one more caught up in the affair while Edith was simply looking forward to getting all the drama out of the way so she could spend the rest of her life with the man she loved and admired.

Sybil had one small routine that she looked forward to daily. Every morning at breakfast with her family, including Mama, it was her habit to satisfy her primary hunger for letters from her mother-in-law, and she searched the silver tray for fat, pastel-stamped envelopes that burst at the edges. Ma Branson corresponded often with her dear daughter-in-law, and so Sybil was able to keep abreast of the goings on back home. This morning it was just her parents and herself in the sun-filled dining room, and she sat at the table to read Ma's letter. As she did, however, Sybil was filled with gnawing anxiety.

A iníon,

_I read your latest letter with joy and pride to learn that we have a baby girl in the family. Thanks be to God, and may we always strive to be deserving of His continued blessings. Like my worn prayer book your letter has undergone numerous re-readings, and every time, I think of when you all will come home. I long to hold the wee babe myself. I am especially proud of the name you have given her—it is indeed an apt one._

_How are you faring these days? I hope that you are getting some help with Saoirse's care; it is equally as important for you to allow yourself time to heal._

_You asked about my own health. Apart from feeling more tired than usual, I have a dry cough that, like a tenacious weed, is hard to get rid of. I've taken in some more washing lately to supplement our income. Tristan reduced his hours at the rail station so he could return to his classes at university. I do not mind this; it's important that he go on with his pursuit of his advanced degree. This son of mine is not suited to be a porter for the rest of his life._

_I have no one else to whom I may unburden my heart, my dear Sybil. I suspect that Tristan is going to secret political meetings. After his shifts have long ended he is not at the library or at home, but rather out with several of the union men. I do not begrudge him friends, but I do worry about the kind of company he is keeping. He comes home in the early morning hours, and when he is here he's withdrawn and prone to outbursts of anger. This is not like him and it worries me. RIC have already come to the house questioning Tristan of the whereabouts of a lad from the railway—one he doesn't even work with—and when I asked him why the police thought he'd know anything about it, he went to his room and slammed the door. _

_I am beginning to tear up as I write this next bit of news and I hope I don't ruin this paper and have to begin afresh. Tristan came home last night looking like a prizefighter after a losing match. His face was lacerated and one eye was swelling shut and purpling. He had been in a pub with some of the lads, toasting their victory after a friendly but competitive game of hurling. Several soldiers burst in accusing them of unlawful assembly and for their disobedience were roughed up._

_I am afraid that the path Tristan is taking will only further jeopardize his personal safety. I fear he will follow through on talk of taking the oath. I've wrestled with whether to tell you these things, but decided in the end that I cannot bear this burden alone. But please don't tell Tom about this, _iníon_. There is enough that concerns him without having to think about his fool of a brother. _

_As Christmas is nigh, please consider coming home soon. It is important for the baby to be baptized at the parish church as soon as you return. Please give Tom my love, and kiss Saoirse for me (several times!). But keep most of my love for yourself._

_In Christ's peace,_

_Ma_

Sybil put down Ma's letter and her appetite was lost—even for the toast and variety of jams Carson had set out. She seemed to peer out through an indigo haze, and Mama noticed.

"Bad news, Sybil darling?"

"There might be some trouble with my brother-in-law. I fear it's not good news."

Papa cleared his throat audibly and loudly rattled the pages of the newspaper he was reading, lifting it even higher so his face was obscured. Mama looked uncomfortably from him back to Sybil, and tried to steer the conversation to a safer topic. "Well, I hope that things do get better. And Christmas is coming. I've been thinking about the Servants' Ball, and perhaps you could help me organize it. What do you think?"

Sybil tried not to roll her eyes at her mother's attempt to keep the peace. "I'm not sure that Tom and I will be staying until then, Mama."

Papa now put down his paper. "What? Do you mean to say that you will miss another Christmas? You know your mother doesn't want to go through another without you here."

"I will talk it over with Tom, but I do think it's about time for us to be getting back home."

"Your home is also here, darling," Mama persisted, with that ever-placid smile, the one that Sybil knew was actually masking irritation.

"I'd like to accede to your wishes, Mama. But surely you didn't think we'd stay here forever. Tom's mother also wants us back for Christmas, and she has yet to see Saoirse." Sybil stood up, placing her napkin on her clean plate and gathering Ma's letter. "Besides, I'm sure that the staff would love to see the back of us as soon as possible."

* * *

When Tom came home for the weekend she wrapped her arms around his neck and she didn't let him go for several minutes. Tom laughed at her welcome, but then sobered when he looked at her face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she replied, trying to disguise the worry she was feeling. "I'm just glad you're here."

"Oh come now, I know your face. Remember what you told me? No secrets between us."

She took a deep breath. "I think it's time we go back home," came her grim response.


	9. Prophecy or Premonition

**IX. Prophecy or Premonition**

It was one of those occasions when a hint of light made a rare sepia appearance and dispensed with days that began heavy and misty. And because it was a picturesque morning for the middle of December, marred just by slender wisps of cloud gathering in a grayish raft, Sybil nudged Tom to get out of bed and join her for a walk before breakfast.

A thin layer of frost feathered the grounds and their boots made slight crunching noises as they ambled along lanes that were littered with trees' shed plumages of amber and russet. Their tranquil walk was interrupted only by the acknowledgment of the under gardeners who paused in their work to bid them good morning as they walked past. As they walked through a grove of trees, still majestic even in their starkness, Sybil wound her arm through Tom's, and reached into the pocket of his overcoat to retrieve his hand so she could weave her gloved fingers through his. He laughed, his breath visible, so touched by her display of affection. They weren't going anyplace in particular, nor were they following any kind of prescribed path, for they were engrossed in planning their departure from England. Sybil convinced Tom that she felt strong enough to travel, and that she didn't need to convalesce any longer than necessary at Downton. So they decided that Tom would travel back to London on Sunday night, and inform the landlady of his last week of occupancy at the boarding house; he was paid up till the end of the month, but no matter, he too, wanted to spend Christmas back home. After the new year, Sybil would re-apply with the matron at her former hospital for a staff position, and she told Tom that she would start her inquiries by writing their neighbor Mabel about any open positions at the clinic where she worked. Tom thought her plan sound; he himself would write Stewart informing him of their return home. He could still work as a freelance writer, but he also knew of a post that was unfortunately still left unfilled. Kevin O'Connor had never come back to work. As Sybil listened to her husband speak about him, and his own continued desire to make a difference in reporting the truth—even if it meant risking his life to record events that he believed would be a part of Irish history—she felt torn. She had told him the night he came back of her concerns for Ma's persistent cough, and his brow had furrowed. But after remembering how he grieved after the death of his cousin, she wasn't sure if telling him about his brother would make him proud or make him angry; she didn't want to hide anything from him, but she couldn't bring herself to say the words only to risk upsetting him even further. So she decided to keep it to herself for now, and wait to tell him when the timing was right.

As they continued their stroll, Sybil's eyes lit up as she spotted a giant tree and pulled Tom behind her. "Oh, Tom, that's my tree! It's still standing." She circled the trunk, fingers searching for something in the rough bark. "There was a storm shortly before you and I had left for Dublin and I had overhead the groundskeeper say that he thought this one wouldn't last for much longer. Ah, there it is," she said, pointing to a section of the bark. She smiled to see carvings that had weathered time and the seasons: SC + TB. "Look," she fitted her fingers right into the grooves of the initials and over the rough bark. "I carved this when I was eleven."

Tom peered closer to inspect the initials. "TB!"

She laughed, "I had a crush on another Tom, Tom Bellasis. We were playmates and I thought he was most handsome."

"Well, lucky for me that you ended up with Tom Branson." He turned to her, looking at her wistful profile. "Would you call this fate?"

She squarely met his gaze. "Fate is given far too much credit. I've never been a real believer in it. But I do know that we've chosen each other, and that wherever life takes us, I would want to always be with you."

"Right architects of our own destiny, aren't we, love?" A grin lit his face as Sybil nodded and reached up to wrap her arms around his neck.

* * *

Tom closed the door of the nursery, having kissed his sleepy baby and leaving her gurgling on Anna's shoulder. Tonight Anna would sleep on the cot Sybil would normally occupy and tonight he wanted to get some real rest in the arms of his wife, but first he needed to take off his damp pyjama top.

As he entered the bedroom holding his slightly stained top, Sybil smiled as he came in. Barely had the door closed when she started slowly slipping off her peignoir to reveal a pearl white crêpe de chine gown underneath. The bodice, embellished with lace as delicate as a cicada's wing, strained against the fullness of her breasts, and web-thin straps tantalizingly threatened to fall from her shoulders. For a moment it seemed that the power of speech had abandoned him and all he could do was gape. Finally, he managed, "Where did you get that?"

She smiled archly. "Do you like it? I bought it when Edith and I were out shopping for her trousseau."

"I don't think you need to ask me if I like it." She was a vision—a collision of the classical and the sensuous, and a hot urge burned in his stomach, as if he'd swallowed a shovelful of embers. His eyes followed her hungrily as she elegantly draped her wrap at the footboard and lay atop the bed.

She bent one leg up and a ripple of silk cascaded down her thigh. Gently tapping his side of the bed, she said, "Come here," her tone equal parts commanding and affectionate, and she had that look in her eye that he recognized all too well. Sybil Crawley Branson knew what she wanted and was not going to be denied. Tossing his pyjama top onto the nearby chair, he climbed in. He moved to turn the bedside lamp off and she shook her head. "Leave it on this time." He curved over her as she held his neck and pulled his mouth to her open one, eagerly meeting his kiss with an exploratory tongue. The sensation of her breath mingling with his produced an automatic, fuller response in his loins. He moved atop her and felt his calves gripped by her own wrapping around them. The softness of both silk and her skin were almost indistinguishable under his palms, and he shivered in response to her teasing fingers at his back. She reached under his shirt to touch his bare skin, her hands sliding up the small of his back and up his ribcage. Their kisses were finally broken when she pulled the hem of his undershirt up and over his head, and with a flick of her wrist dropped it to the floor. She sighed and arched her swollen breasts against his chest, all the while holding his hips and pressing him urgently towards her. Tom caught his breath and gazed upon his wife's lovely face: from her long lashes that fringed her closed eyelids to cheeks that were beautifully flushed—indeed her whole countenance seemed to glow. The feel of her warm breath from her slightly open mouth made him want to bury himself right then and there into her. Sybil's eyes fluttered open and they danced in the tawny light of the bedside lamp—she was obviously reveling in the effect she knew she was having on him. Her left arm reached over her head, and then he bent his own to nip at the soft flesh of her upper arm, lips traveling down to her breast. With a slight pull of his index finger, he loosened one of the thin straps from her shoulder. Taking her nipple in his mouth he sucked harder in response to her insistent fingers on the nape of his neck. His lips traveled lower down her body, and palms pushed silk farther up, until he came down to the plaster that covered her abdomen. At the sight of the dressing he was overcome with a wave of tenderness for his wife, sensing it as palpably as the sun on skin, and he kissed the plaster reverently. He knew the sutures had already been removed but it all still felt too fragile, so he moved back up, rolling onto his side of the bed, and planted a kiss on her forehead. "We should stop. I don't want to hurt you. I'd be fine with just a cuddle."

"Dr. Clarkson says we should wait at least one more week, until I've healed."

Settling his head on the crook of one arm, he softly touched her pulse at the base of her throat, and then his fingers lightly traced across her collarbone. "And is that your professional opinion as well, Nurse Branson?"

"Well, as Nurse Branson I must concur with the good doctor's opinion."

"All right then, we'll stop," he said, replacing the strap on her shoulder and smoothing her gown downward.

"But as Mrs. Branson I don't think I can wait that long." Her voice was soft and coaxing and a corner of her mouth lifted in a half smile. She leaned up on one elbow and her forefinger traced circles on his chest.

"Sybil…"

"My immune system improves with sex," she asserted with a mischievous grin.

He gave her a look, somewhere between teasing and tender. "Really, I find that hard to believe." But he couldn't ignore the need he saw in those burning eyes, the color of midnight in summer. With all-devouring passion she stilled any further protests with fingers pressed to his lips, and his own fingers closed around them meeting them with a kiss of his own. Without taking her eyes off his, she pushed his pyjama bottoms down and with a smooth movement, she was above him and had him between her slim thighs. With another graceful sweep of her arms and an alluring smile, the newly bought crêpe de chine came off her and it floated to the floor, joining his undershirt there. A sense of wonder was building within him, as he drank in the sight of her smooth porcelain skin, and her utter lack of self-consciousness undid him. It had been so long since they'd made love properly, when he could look at her face and watch her expressions change from love to desire to bliss.

There's slow. And then there's sedate, to the extent that the unhurriedness results in a maddening frustration and a building desire for instant gratification. There was no thought of time or place when the sensations of roving hands, lips, tongues and breaths were all Tom could focus on.

Suddenly everything was electrically charged and he had to force himself to move slowly, easing into her wet warmth, as gently as he did on their wedding night. He was anxious not to cause her any pain—in spite of his own desire—mindful of the trauma her body had just gone through. But feeling her tightly enveloping him was almost like a brand-new thrill. Gripping her hips, Tom buried his face into her neck, trying to stifle the groans that ached to escape from his lips. "I love you so much," he murmured in her ear. Sybil's supple warm body beneath his hands, the fragrance of roses wafting from her neck and wrists, and hushed sounds from her lips—all of it making this intimacy with her so visceral and palpable.

Sybil dug her fingers into his upper back and set the pace, and her teeth were clamped down on her lower lip. A sheen of sweat started to form on her face, and she began to move more rapidly, more urgently—despite Tom's valiant efforts to slow the friction. And then, to hell with it: his hands roamed from her hips to cup and squeeze her bottom. Sybil's carnal sighs and moans as she rocked faster sent waves of pleasure coursing over his own body until he felt himself tighten and finally climax inside her.

When Sybil's breathing slowed and became more regular, she eased herself off him and lay back on the bed. It humbled Tom to see so much love in her eyes. "My darling," she whispered as she caressed his cheek, "don't ever stop loving me."

He grasped her hand and kissed her palm. He felt such a burst of love, pure and blinding, radiating through him as he gazed at her. "It's impossible for me to stop loving you."

Moments later, as they lay in a darkened tangle of limbs and sheets, Tom listened to her soft, satisfied breathing and he was lulled to sleep.

* * *

_The stillness of the room is disturbed only by dust that flutters in shafts of light. Rough rope binds a man's wrists to the top of a wooden pillar, his body hung down so his bare and dirty feet dangle just a few inches above the ground. The man's head is bowed, and his naked torso glistens with sweat, the muscles in his wiry arms twitch and pulse._

_**In the presence of God, I, Tristan Mícheál Branson, do solemnly swear that I will do my utmost to establish the independence of Ireland…**_

_Come on, Tris, don't you back out now._

_Have you memorized it, or do you need the card?_

_I promise you, you will be a different man once you've done this. You will be one of us._

…_**and that I will bear true allegiance to the Supreme Council of the Irish Republican Brotherhood and the Government of the Irish Republic…**_

_Glass from the windows of the room explodes in a diamond burst and shards shoot through the air, driving razors across the space like knives searching for a target. _

…_**and implicitly obey the constitution of the Irish Republican Brotherhood and all my superior officers and that I will preserve inviolable the secrets of the organisation.**_

Tom awoke, his breath coming heavy and his mind awakening to a presentiment that he hoped to God was just a nightmare and not remotely reality. His skin felt cold and clammy and he felt something else. Something in the back of his neck, felt it stealthily travel under his hair and send a wave of icy chills down his spine. It was a warning, an instinctive response. _No, _he shook his head. _Tris is far too sensible. _He reached for Sybil, still sleeping peacefully, and then the impulse melted away when he touched her. He breathed deeply and wrapped his arm around her middle, and he felt her shift and press back into his embrace.


	10. As the Hours Creep Forward

_A/N: For the followers who wrote me encouraging and inspiring messages, thank you! :) _

* * *

**X. As the Hours Creep Forward **

It is time.

Deft fingers insert a slim key into a slot and an experienced wrist twists. This is a practiced action from one who has performed this task daily on all the clocks at Downton Abbey since he was a second footman. The first turn causes the gears to snap loudly and the motionless hour and minute hands to shiver slightly. The next several turns effectively set the second hand to sweep clockwise around the porcelain face.

Everyone in the foyer—members of the Crawley clan and Carson's staff—stand and silently watch as Thomas Barrow, Downton Abbey's de facto timekeeper, flips open his pocket watch and adjusts the position of the minute and hour hands in accordance with what is displayed on his timepiece. There is an electric hush that presses upon the two dozen or so servants and family members and nothing could be heard except the sounds of the clock coming to life. Saoirse whimpers in her mother's arms, and Sybil holds her close and rocks her.

Papa breaks the relative silence when Thomas steps back and nods his head, confirming that the brass clock's time has been set in motion. "For Saoirse," he announces magisterially. "In commemoration of her welcome addition to the House of Grantham. May she always be blessed with good health, good fortune, and the care of both her parents."

"For Saoirse," everyone echoes, and there are smiles, murmurs of laughter, and applause. Saoirse responds to the collective greeting by starting to wail.

"Oh darling, don't cry, Mummy is here," Sybil coos to her daughter as well wishers surround her and Tom with embraces, kisses, and handshakes.

It is time to leave Downton—time to go home.

* * *

The heavy brass clock had been delivered to Papa just in time before Christmas. Papa had it specially ordered from Switzerland with specific instructions to detail it with tableaus from Greek mythology. He had always been impressed with Monsieur LeCoultre's work, and with this latest creation Papa thought the horologist had outdone himself.

In the quiet and privacy of his study, he looked at it now, his fingers tracing its immaculate features. He inspected the beautiful images of Aphrodite emerging from the frothy sea, and of the warrior Athena breaking from the skull of Zeus, fully armored and ready for battle. He felt like he was always living in the past, losing himself in myths. But he couldn't help his love for fantastic stories; it was his mental escape—his way of finding solace from the heavy burden of being a caretaker of a legacy and a tradition. Once more his fingers traveled over the cold brass. He marked the contrast of the bold black numerals set against its alabaster face, and he felt a tinge of sadness, a hint of regret. How did time go by so quickly? His time as the sixth earl of Grantham would soon come to an end. A new era would dawn with the installment of Matthew as the seventh. Already, he felt like he was retiring into the role of elder statesman. He felt like an anachronism, someone who did not belong in this new world. But this life was all he knew: it was unthinkable to Robert to question the role he was to play—ever since he could remember it was ingrained in him what his responsibilities were, and he believed it a cardinal sin to defy convention and to disrespect the memory of the five earls that had come before him by not fulfilling that role and honoring his obligations.

The indoctrination began when he was seven years old. He went out riding with his father on the estate; he had thought he was only going to spend an afternoon racing with his papa but the excursion turned out to be something more. And it was on that day that young Robert first felt the heavy weight of duty on his shoulders. Papa had led him to a hillcrest that overlooked the expanse of estate, and reined his horse.

"_Let's stop here."_

_Robert pulled up alongside Papa, his horse snorting and stamping from the exertion. He pulled on the reins but Prince continued his agitated rotation around Papa and his horse._

"_Control your mount, Robert," ordered Papa._

_Robert had to clench his knees in and commanded, "Easy, Prince, hold." He patted Prince's neck. When he finally positioned himself alongside Papa, he looked at him expectantly._

_Papa smiled and nodded, and then stretched out his arm and pointed before them. "What do you see, my boy?" _

_Robert clenched his lips and tried to ignore the chill of the swirling wind. "Umm, land with green grass. And trees…." _

"_Look closer. That should not be all you see."_

_Robert frowned. This conversation was taking a strange turn, and it felt like one that he routinely had with his tutor, old Mr. Durham, but this time he was not prepared for this line of questioning. "The spacious grounds of Downton?" he offered meekly._

"_What is before us is a home that belongs to us, and yet we are not free to do what we want with it. It is my obligation to care for it so that when you grow up, I will pass it on to you to care for, and then you will pass it along to your son. Everything that you will do once you inherit will be to treat Downton Abbey as one of the family. You shall give it the same respect you show to me and Mama, and the same love you'll bestow on a child of your own. Do you take my meaning?"_

_Robert swallowed and squinted up at Papa. He did not really fully understand, but he replied with what he thought was the right response, "Yes, Papa."_

"_So you must protect it as those before you have done. Not because it's yours but because it belongs to generations of Crawleys to come." _

And from that day forward, young Robert viewed Downton Abbey with different eyes. No longer did he see its spacious parks as a wide playground he and Rosamund could roam and race in. His studies in the schoolroom with Mr. Durham were taken much more seriously. Four years later, he was reminded again of his impending responsibilities, when he was sent off to Eton, and the recurring theme of all his lessons was duty above all else. And once more, the mantle of earldom was ever heavier on his shoulders when his father called him into this very room to tell him of their dire financial straits, and that he'd arranged for his eighteen-year-old son to temporarily shelve his studies at Oxford to go to America. So Robert said his farewells to Aristotle, St. Augustine, Plato, and Descartes, and sailed for the new world in search of a rich bride.

He grunted and shook himself from his reverie. The shadow on the wall told him that the sun was setting in the west. What an old useless fool he'd become. As he gazed back at the clock it became a reminder that regardless of what happened around him, time marched on. And one could either waste it with needless petulance, or make the most of what time he had left with his youngest daughter.

He rose to put the clock back in its crate when he heard a knock on the door. "Papa?" Sybil softly called. "Am I disturbing you?"

His heart leapt and he smiled. "Of course not. Please, come in."

Sybil approached and stood before him, her discomfort showing plainly on her face. She licked her lips and pressed them together, unsure of how to begin.

"Have you come to say goodbye?" He sank down heavily upon his chair.

She couldn't hide the relief on her face when he broached the topic first. "Yes, we're leaving on the twenty-second. Tom won't stay for the entire week in London, he's just going to collect his things and we'll be off to Liverpool to catch the morning ferry. I…" she trailed off.

"What is it?"

"I…I don't know when we'll be back. I'm not sure we'll even be able to attend Edith's wedding next summer. I hope to secure a place in the new year and I mean to keep it as long as I can."

Papa nodded. "I understand."

Sybil rattled on, as though eager to explain fully. "It's not that we wouldn't want to come back. But I'd have to give up my job if we were to return for an extended visit."

"I know, Sybil. There's no need to explain." Papa's eyes lowered to his hands.

Sybil stepped closer, wringing her own hands. "Papa, we both need to work. We have Saoirse to think about. And I am rather looking forward to getting back to Dublin, back to my house and my life there. I…I did have such hopes of everyone getting on while we were here. I know I've said some very hurtful things to you. But I can't leave…without…without…" Her voice, becoming thick with emotion, trailed off again.

Papa stood up and folded her in his arms. "Sybil, I know. I am sorry that your visit here has been so full of tension. I'm not proud of how I've behaved towards you. And…and towards Tom." He held her at arm's length and looked at her tear-filled eyes, large drops now falling faster down her cheeks. "I am proud of you. I'm very proud of the woman you've become. This old man had just wanted to hold on to his little girl a bit longer but you've grown up too fast for me, and I can no longer keep up. Should I be pitied?" He embraced her again.

He had to strain a bit to hear her voice, choked and muffled against his shoulder. "No, Papa. You are the best of men. I love you."

"I love you, too, my girl."

She pulled back and swiped the tears from her cheeks. "You are welcome to visit us in Dublin. Anytime."

"Maybe someday." He laughed weakly. "I am rather curious to see how you live."

"Now, Papa," she laughed. "We aren't living in squalor, I promise you. My house is not as grand as this, but it's clean and nicely furnished and I am rather proud of my homemaking skills."

Papa's answering laugh was a genuine one that dispersed the clouds of tension that had hovered over them. "Well, speaking of furnishings, what do you think of my Christmas present for all of you?" He gestured to the clock resting on his desk.

Sybil gasped. "Oh, it's beautiful! Tom would love it." She ran her fingers over the scrollwork at the top.

"I'm very glad to hear it," he chuckled.

Sybil's eyes softened and a reflective smile crept over her face. "I think this would be a nice addition to Tom's office at home."

"Ah, he works at home, then."

"Sometimes. It's just a small room, but he needs a proper space to focus and not be disturbed. There are three rooms upstairs—his office, our master bedroom, and the other small room that's already outfitted as a nursery."

"I would really like to hear more about your house. And about your work."

"I can tell you everything about our life in Ireland, and how Tom and I take care of each other." She paused. "Do you have time?"

"I do now." He squeezed her hand and pulled out a chair for her, and she sat down, smiling as he settled in his own chair. "So do _you_ like the clock?"

"I will always think of you when I wind it, Papa."

**x-x**

Tom clicked his pocket watch closed, having noted that it was eleven minutes to dock. As the ferry brought them ever closer to Dublin, Tom breathed deeply and smiled—they were nearly home. He heard Saoirse start to cough and then let out an agitated cry. "Here, I'll hold her," and reached for the wriggling baby. He was so engrossed in calming Saoirse that he did not see Sybil wiping the sea's breath from her face, and that it was mixed with her own tears.


	11. O Holy Night

**XI. O Holy Night **

White-tipped, rollicking waves, glowing pink against the evening sky, and brisk winds had pushed the ferry vigorously west across the Irish Sea. Those winds still blew forcefully, causing Pier Five's flags to flap noisily and the moored ferry to continue to rock gently in its dock. Tom trod carefully down the wooden boards of the gangplank, as he held a calmer Saoirse in the crook of his arm. Sybil was close behind him, carrying a small travel case and was the first to spot Ma and Father Farry.

"Hello!" she waved to her mother-in-law and the elderly priest, and immediately held onto her hat. The wind threatened to push Ma's hat from her own head, and she gave a short wave before clamping her hand atop her head. Father Farry's cassock swung about his legs as he guided Ma around the bustling dock traffic to meet them.

"Oh my dears, how wonderful to finally have you home!" Ma breathed, and she hugged Sybil.

"Hello, Tom, Sybil….Let me get that bag for you, dear," said Father Farry, reaching to take her travel bag.

Tom kissed Ma. "How are you, Ma? I heard that you've been coughing of late."

Ma eyes darted to Sybil, who discreetly shook her head. "It's just a cold—I'm all right," she replied tersely. Then she brightened. "Is this our girl? Let me have a look at her," Ma's cheeks, soft and fragile as old parchment, were flushed from the brisk wind but they blushed even brighter upon looking at her granddaughter. Tom gently deposited Saoirse in his mother's arms and with that transfer the baby awoke and waved her arms, a hoarse, irritated cry issuing from her mouth. Everyone laughed as Ma then rocked her close and tried to assuage her tears.

Tom cast his gaze around the dock. "Where's Tristan? Working?"

Ma visibly stiffened. "Tris has gone off with some of his friends."

Tom frowned. "On holiday? With Christmas so near?"

Father Farry cleared his throat. "Let's get you all home. Saoirse and Sybil must be freezing here."

Tom snapped his fingers. "Our luggage! Will you give me hand, Father?"

The two men started off, followed by some urchins who begged, "Please, have you a coin?" "Father, please bless us with coin so we can buy bread." Left behind on the dock, Sybil wrapped an arm around Ma and the two women exchanged knowing glances.

* * *

Huddled in the backseat of Father Farry's old motorcar with her husband, Sybil happily took in the scene of her second Christmas season in Dublin. The shops downtown were already awash in color: storefronts painted green and red were augmented with festive gold, white, and silver wreaths and banners that adorned their doors and windows, others with strings of small lights that rimmed display windows. Even street lampposts and the bare trees that lined the thoroughfares were draped with tinsel that sparkled a little more brilliantly now that a light mist of rain started to fall—making the crowds of shoppers holding parcels and baskets walk a little faster to get to their destinations. Amidst the din of bicycle and trolley bells, car horns, and the loud motors, musicians stationed at almost every other street corner elevated their voices in carols accompanied by blaring trumpets, shaken tambourines, and booming drums.

"All right, _ma mhuirnín_?" Tom put a hand on her knee.

"I'm so glad to be home," said Sybil and the smile on her face was endearingly genuine.

"That's good to hear," said Father Farry from the driver's seat. " 'Ireland, madam, for good or evil, is like no other place under heaven.' "

Tom laughed. "I know of no other priest who's as adroit at quoting George Bernard Shaw, Father….But tell me, has civilian life improved or taken a turn for the worse since we left?"

"I honestly try not to involve myself in political machinations, Tom, but of course, even I am not naïve to all the bloody intimidation tactics that are going on. And I mean that both sides of this thing aren't completely blameless. It's a mess…it's degenerated to hooliganism, in my opinion. When I read the newspapers and see that the fourth Home Rule bill's all but passed, I shudder to think of the people's reactions."

"I was present at the debates in the Upper House, Father. The English had always been leaning towards giving us limited independence. In the end we still wouldn't be able to fully govern ourselves, and in all respects must still answer to London." Tom shook his head. "I don't think that anything moderate will be good enough."

"I think you're right, son," the old priest concurred.

"I, for one, just want to feel safe at home. Right now, I don't, knowing an explosion could occur anytime, anywhere. I don't like walking around in fear of being accosted—it's gotten to a point where the sight of a khaki uniform makes me lose breath and brings on a coughing fit," added Ma from the front of the vehicle.

Sybil turned to face Tom. "But darling, as long as Ireland is given some measure of independence, why can't that be enough? Why can't there be some compromise, just so the bloodshed can stop?"

Tom didn't know how to respond. The idealist in him still yearned for his country to be completely free, and perhaps if he hadn't had a wife and daughter, he would have unhesitatingly said that the ends justified the means. But now, he was no longer completely convinced that achieving the goals of freedom through violence was the best path, and no longer believed that the bloodshed of civilians, freedom fighters, and even English soldiers was worth winning that freedom.

The motorcar finally pulled right in front of their red brick two-story house. Sybil smiled and took Saoirse from Ma before Tom helped his mother out. She whispered to her baby, "We're home…."

* * *

The days right before Christmas were not white. The rain continued to fall, but Sybil didn't mind staying homebound; she set to work in those two days unpacking their trunks and tidying the entire house. She started preparing meat for a Christmas Eve roast and the goose for Christmas Day, as well chocolate flambé. If there was one more cooking lesson she could wrench from Mrs. Patmore before leaving Downton, it was to learn how to make her favorite Yuletide dessert.

Tom smiled at her energy and industriousness around the house: how much dirt had actually accumulated while they were gone, he asked? Sybil only swatted him with her cleaning rag and told him to go back upstairs and work while she did hers downstairs. Mabel was coming over for tea, so if he could also keep watch over Saoirse she would appreciate an afternoon with her best friend. So Tom went upstairs to lay Saoirse down for a nap and then settled in his office to compile his notes on the Government of Ireland Act. He had received a wire from Kennedy, who was still in London, that on December 23, on their first day back in Dublin, the Fourth Home Rule Act was declared. It effectively split Irish government into two Parliaments with a Prime Minister at the head of each, one for the unionists and one for the nationalists. Both administrations, however, were ultimately still accountable to the English parliament. Six counties in the north voted to separate themselves from the Dáil constituencies, and Tom could see the beginnings of fissures in Irish unity and a probable slowing of the momentum for independence. Tom leaned back in his chair and looked up at the clock that Sybil unpacked and wound that morning, resting atop his bookcase. As the conflict was about to enter its third year, sometimes it seemed as though the nationalists weren't any closer to achieving their goals. He set back to work typing; he aimed to finish this report before paying Stewart a visit at the paper after Christmas.

A knock on the door made him look up to see Sybil at the entrance. "Did you have a nice time with Mabel, love?"

Sybil smiled happily and nodded. "It was almost like picking right up where we left off. She's going to meet us at church. I'm going to wake Saoirse," she said. "I hope that she isn't going to be fussy at Midnight Mass." She returned a few minutes later with a wide-awake baby in her arms. "Well, she was just lying there, as still as a mouse, already wide awake! Merry Christmas, da….it's my first Christmas…" she cooed and then looked at Tom. "Can you believe how much she's changed in just a month? Her features are becoming more defined." Saoirse responded with a smile, and then, as though realizing she had hands and wanted to show them to her parents, jerked her arms in the air.

Tom stood from his chair and offered his daughter a forefinger to grasp. "She's got the best of you, all of her ma's beauty."

"If she has my looks, then she must have her da's brain. Because her daddy's sooo smart, isn't he? Aren't you daddy's girl?"

Tom laughed. "You're my girl, too." He leaned in to kiss Sybil. "Do you want your gift now, or tomorrow morning?"

Sybil's eyes went wide and she gasped, "Tom, we agreed that we wouldn't give each other gifts this year!"

It had been Tom's proposal not to buy each other Christmas gifts, a suggestion that Sybil thought practical, especially with their limited income. However, during his lonely nights in London, Tom regretted the scheme. To him, a gift conveyed affection, appreciation, and respect—all of which he felt for his wife, and Christmastime was the perfect time to let her know those sentiments. "Yeah, I know….but that was before I saw your gift in London."

"Tom, I took you at your word! I honestly didn't get you anything."

"You've already given me a gift, remember? This one…." he said, pulling the fist that Saoirse crammed into her mouth.

Sybil's curiosity got the better of her and her eyes gleamed. "Can I have it now?"

He smiled and opened his desk drawer to pull out a small box, tied simply with a red ribbon. "I didn't have any paper to wrap it."

Sybil handed the baby to him, and then focused all her attention on the box. She raised her eyes to Tom. "How…?"

"I saved some of the per diem and went without a few lunches….Now are you going to open it, miss?"

Her fingers gently pulled the ribbon and pried the lid open to reveal a blue topaz ring embedded in the soft folds of velvet. Tiny crystals set in a pinwheel design surrounded the topaz and the jewel glittered in the glow of Tom's office lamp. "Oh my God, Tom…"

"Topaz is Saoirse's birthstone, blue for the color of your eyes. I debated whether to get you this or a new winter coat, but I guess my pride overruled practicality."

Sybil put the ring on her right hand and laid her palm on his cheek. "I love it," she said simply.

"It won't keep you warm."

"But I will be when I wear it and think of how much I love you."

"Happy Christmas, _ma mhuirnín_."

A tree branch scraped the outside pane of the second-story window, triggered by force of the wind that accompanied the still-falling rain. But inside the walls of their warm home, Tom and Sybil kissed in the glow of his single desk lamp, holding Saoirse, who made it known that she wanted some of the affection her parents were lavishing on each other to be bestowed on her.

**x-x**

The storm ripped over the mountains in County Cork, a downpour of rain that struck the ground with the sharp ring of stone on metal. Lightning tore the sky, fierce angry streaks that slammed against the cannon roar of thunder. There was viciousness in the atmosphere, a sizzle of ferocity and spite that suited Tristan's mood perfectly—he waited under the cover of a cave, waiting for a signal from the sea that told him a supply of munitions had arrived. Standing at the mouth of the cave, where long grasses and moss formed a tangled curtain that didn't quite protect him from the spray of water, Tristan peered into the dark, his eyes watchful on the turbulent waters that rose and crashed, sending mists spraying upward in a plume, and took another swallow from his flask. The taste of the whiskey was hot and warmed him as he waited in the night air.

He wasn't always so angry—he was not the type of person to get into fights. People used to say that in looks the Branson brothers were almost eerily like twins, but in temperament they were like night and day. In fact, in his younger days he'd be the one to rescue his little brother Tom from scrapes and schoolyard brawls. He'd always been the voice of reason, the one who, unlike his hotheaded brother, could enter a confrontation with collected calm and defuse it, walking away without a black eye or a bloody nose. But that changed on a summer day as he walked home from a long day that began with classes at the University of Dublin, followed by a shift at the rail station. It was a warm evening, still bright as the hour approached dusk, and he was confronted in public by a pair of drunken Tans outside the corner pub. He wasn't going to lie to himself, but the sight of those khaki uniforms made him nervous, and he tried to avoid trouble by attempting to cross the road. The men laughed and shoved him as he had attempted to do so, and called him a cowardly pig. They had tried to coax a heated reaction from him, which would be reason enough to bring out their batons and beat him for insolence. He had taken the verbal abuse and the insults, and soon the soldiers grew tired of Tristan's resistance to their baiting and walked away, but not before spitting in his face and giving him one last push against a brick wall.

With his heart hammering loudly in his chest and face hot with shame, Tristan had wiped the spittle with a handkerchief and saw the pitying looks on the faces of passerby. His humiliation was complete. He had been branded a coward, his manhood called into question, and a small part of him wished that he'd come away from this confrontation with a black eye or a bloody nose.

And then it seemed like not so long ago when he got that black eye and bloody nose on the night of the raucous post-match celebration at Doherty's. The merrymaking had suddenly stilled as a group of English soldiers silently stalked into the warm and brightly lit barroom. No one stirred as the sergeant's boots stomped around the perimeter of the room, boldly trying to look into eyes that were cast anywhere but on his. "What's this I hear about a match being played this afternoon?" he had demanded. It was as though a collective breath was being held and the atmosphere grew thick with nervousness and fear. "You lot know that's considered unlawful assembly, don't you? Fucking pigs…daring to defy English law…we ought to jail the whole lot of you." Tristan's eyes had been cast down, but he surreptitiously brought them back up as the sergeant continued his measured movements around the pub, poking at some of the men and demanding that someone take ownership for the hurling match that was played that afternoon. "Were you one of them? Answer me, you fuckers. Are you all deaf and dumb?"

The sergeant was now standing in front of him, and Tristan met his gaze squarely. The memory of last summer's confrontation loomed large in his head and his hands were clenched in fists of rage. Words were drawn from his heart and mouth like water from a well. "It is not unlawful assembly when a harmless match is played," he said.

The sergeant coolly smiled and his shark-like teeth gleamed. "What did you say?"

Tristan grimaced, the muscles in jaw tensing, and then folded his arms across his chest. He could feel his heart beating like a bodhrán. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear in English." He repeated what he said in Gaelic.

The sergeant moved quickly. He shoved Tristan, and a surge of adrenaline rushed through Tristan's veins and he shoved back. And then the whole pub erupted into chaos—a confusion of swinging fists, hammering batons, shouts of terror from some of the women trying to take cover, with some getting trampled in the process, and the shattering of glass and breaking wood. The soldiers were far outnumbered but in the end they had raised their firearms and fired rounds into the rafters, finally bringing the situation under their control. That night Tristan and his friends spent a cold and uncomfortable night in a jail cell, and released early the next morning by the help of Aiden Flynn, one of the union leaders from the railway. It didn't take long after gaining his freedom for Tristan to decide to join the Brotherhood.

The experience of training in the cold craggy mountainside of Cork left Tristan with no time to be homesick. All military exercises were conducted by a former RIC officer, Ryan Riley, who bore a pale, puckered scar indented into his flesh of his face. The scar that ran down the length of his face curved his mouth downward, forcing him to assume a perpetual sullen expression. Riley's brand of training was essentially meant to dehumanize them and the English, stripping recruits of the ability to feel no emotion but anger and casting the English as "the enemy." Tristan's days were spent climbing and darting over rocks and hills, peppering makeshift targets with bullets, and slithering on his stomach through long scratchy grass. Riley showed them how to take advantage of their natural surroundings, using them for cover and for fortifications. Tristan even learned from the mistakes that others' made: he had watched as one of his fellow trainees got an earful for moving so clumsily through the grass that a flock of birds exploded from the heather and soared into the sky. "You just fucking gave away your position!" Riley yelled, every word a verbal whipping.

The first time Riley put a pistol in his hands, Tristan was caught unaware. He had expected it to feel heavier but it actually felt light and smooth to the touch. He thought back to one other time in his life when the felt the touch of cool metal. As an acolyte, his young hands had held cups that contained the spilled Blood of Christ; the pistol in his adult hand would spill the blood of an Englishman.

But the biggest lesson he had to learn was that sometimes a man didn't die quickly and you had to finish him off as he lay weak and on the ground. Riley told all the new recruits of a brawl he had survived by killing his attacker with the knife he tugged out of his own torn flesh and plunging it right into the other man's midsection. He described the feeling of breaking through the resistance of cloth and skin, hearing the man's ribs crack, and the satisfying warmth of the sticky blood that coursed down the handle. He wanted everyone to remember that in war you cannot hesitate and you cannot show mercy.

Fear and anger were such counterproductive emotions—yet they dominated his better judgment and kept him motivated. And yet tonight, as Tristan took another draught from his flask, he put aside those feelings for a moment as he recalled that it was Christmas Eve. The family was likely at St. Andrew's, attending Midnight Mass, having enjoyed a splendid Christmas Eve supper. He hummed a few bars of "O Holy Night," his favorite Christmas hymn, and the sound of it from the hollow of his throat sounded more like a dirge in the dark than a joyful hymn of hope and redemption.

_Long lay the world in sin and error pining, till He appeared and the soul felt its worth._

_Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices!  
O night divine, the night when Christ was born  
_  
Tristan lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Even in the aftermath of the failed ambush at Dillon's Cross, he felt the tide was turning in their favor. _It is the birth of a new era,_ he thought, as smoke seeped from his lips.


	12. Resolutions

**XII. Resolutions **

Mabel Gallagher tucked her bobbed blonde hair behind her ears and reached down into Saoirse's cradle. Her blue eyes never leave those of the baby's, who in turn, calmly regard her back. The baby's eyes wandered over her face, and the boldness of her gaze went straight to Mabel's heart. For a moment she thought she could see her husband Michael's face in the baby—in the curl of her brown hair, in the point of her chin. How many absent babies have haunted her dreams? How many sons in her imagination have his sparkling green eyes or carry on the name of his father and grandfather? This baby in her arms only reminded her of the truth of all she has lost. Mabel blinked and cursed inwardly for thinking such selfish thoughts about a baby that was not her own. She enfolded her in her arms, like she had done dozens of times with so many other newborns she's cared for at the hospital. Saoirse started to squirm. This baby was different—she was not a patient. She wanted the baby to like her. So she smiled and spoke to the baby in gentle, reassuring tones. But Saoirse finally appeared to decide that she did not like being held by a stranger and writhed, issuing an irritable cry for good measure, just to let her know precisely how she felt.

"I know, I know, sweetheart, please…don't…." Mabel nervously fumbled.

"She's been tetchy lately," said Sybil, and she reached over to stroke the baby's forehead with cool, soft fingers. Saoirse whimpered and her eyes closed. "I look for all the usual signs…does she need a diaper change? Is she hungry? Tired? She's been coughing but I don't think it's a cold. It doesn't sound right to me."

Mabel's forehead creased in concern, her heartbreak momentarily forgotten. "Has a doctor seen her?"

"Dr. Clarkson pronounced her as healthy as a horse before we left Yorkshire."

"Hm…better have Dr. Robinson give her the once over. He's the new pediatrician at the hospital."

"I will. But I'm afraid it's a matter of the scraping together the funds for a doctor's visit."

"I'll see what I can do about getting you in to see him. And…I've talked to Matron about having you come by."

"Oh, that would be grand, Mabe. If only I can get back to work. We could do with the second income. Tom's freelance pay isn't going to be enough."

Mabel clamped her lips together. She knew better than to ask Sybil if she wanted a loan. "Do you want her?" she asked instead, shifting the wriggling baby to her other crooked arm.

"No, no, keep rocking her. I think she's tired. When she starts to feel heavy you can lay her down."

"I was hoping to see if the cap and booties would fit, but maybe another time."

Sybil inspected the knitted set. "They look a bit large but she will undoubtedly grow into them. Your stitching is so much better than mine!"

Mabel smiled in appreciation. It was a miracle the stitching came out neatly as it did—her best friend does not know how many tears she's cried knowing she would never make a set for Michael's child. She lay the child down and covered her with a soft blanket. The tears came, without warning, without sound or heat. She let them fall, but the terrible bubble inside, of choked emotional magma, seethed along her throat and released.

Sybil is aware of this. She knows from the letters she has received from Mabel while in England that her friend is still mourning her murdered husband. She has returned to find a woman who has a doll-like stiffness about her, wrapped in the fragile protection of grief. She set down the cap and booties, and embraced her friend. "Oh, Mabe," she breathed. "I'm sorry," she says, aware that even as she spoke, what useless things words of sympathy were, even though they were sometimes all one had.

Mabel sobs. "I look and act like a normal person, but I don't feel normal. I feel like I'm sleepwalking through a nightmare. My husband is dead. I didn't even have a chance to have his baby."

* * *

In the spring of 1920, Michael Gallagher, a docker and union leader, mobilized Dublin's dockworkers with the Irish Transport and General Workers' Union. As a collective, Dublin's transportation industry refused to move British supplies and troops. Daring to challenge the authority of the British government in this way was tantamount to taking the oath, but Michael was a defiant republican. Sybil remembered hearing fragments of frantic shouting and tearful pleas emanating from next door. After one particularly heated argument, Sybil crossed her back garden and knocked on Mabel's kitchen door. Through the screen, she could see her friend hunched at her table, hands wrapped around a teacup, staring off into space. She cut a small and lonely figure in the corner, like a prisoner jealously guarding her last meal.

And then, over steaming cups of tea and biscuits, Mabel blasted her pig-headed husband. "He refuses to be cowed, he says, the stubborn man!" she'd said. "Why in hell did I come all the way here, if only to lose him to a bullet or to a prison chamber?"

"He's doing what he thinks is right, Mabel," Sybil had replied.

Her friend bristled. "What's right? To me what's right is that I have a husband who is here with me. Selfish man. What he's doing is _not_ right. It's suicidal."

"Think of this for one minute from his perspective—"

Mabel cut her off with a wave of her hand. "No, I won't! I don't believe in any of this." She sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. "How can I, Sybil? I'm not thinking of the politics of what he's doing. I can't. I only know that I don't want to sacrifice our marriage, _our life together_, at the altar of this war." Mabel's eyes, wide and aggrieved, then fixed on Sybil's face. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"I'm not trying to take sides. I…I just think that this is who Michael is. And he's fighting for something he believes in."

"Would you be so calmly accepting if Tom decided to join the Brotherhood and leave you?"

Sybil looked down at her tea, at the leafy bits that were starting to float up to the surface. Horrifying mental pictures of Tom arrested or beaten for the work he was doing made her shudder and inhale sharply. She felt torn—she wanted to support him in everything, but the selfish part of her did not want to lose him to a cause. Mabel's chin lifted and her voice hardened. "You see? Maybe you're on my side after all."

* * *

The heaviest of the fighting was not in Dublin, but concentrated south in County Cork, where the British declared and imposed martial law. Guerrilla fighting was escalating to alarming levels between the RIC police, British military, and the IRA. Rebels caught by the British were executed and then dumped unceremoniously in unmarked graves in unconsecrated ground inside Mountjoy Prison. Yet those who sided with British, RIC men and their collaborators, when caught by the Brotherhood, fared much worse. In late November 1920, British spies who infiltrated and reported on IRA activities were assassinated, but not before suffering horrible tortures at the hands of their captors.

In early December, the ambush at Dillon's Cross brought the events of the war to a head. What began as a planned night attack on two Auxiliary lorries turned into a bloody exchange between the opposing forces. With weapons drawn, the Auxiliaries chased the retreating revolutionaries to a nearby pub, rounding up dozens of men and forcing them to lie on the ground before shackling them and hauling them to holding cells.

The Auxiliaries in Victoria Barracks were not slow to retaliate, especially for an attack so close to their headquarters. Just one hour later, lorries of Auxiliaries and British soldiers arrived at Dillon's Cross. Soldiers broke into residences, poured petrol into the buildings, and set the houses on fire. Some ordinary citizens who tried to intercede were repeatedly kicked and hit with rifle butts, and many more verbally and physically threatened. Soldiers continued their armed assault at the main shopping thoroughfare, smashing shop windows and tossing small hand grenades. In the aftermath, hundreds were left homeless, and civilian resentment against the British government increased.

* * *

A raw crosswind blew and Tom quickened his pace through the avenue of bare chestnut trees and towards the imposing stone edifice of _The Times._ The day was cold and cloudy, refusing either to rain or snow, and the skies remained stubbornly dismal, as if a shroud lay on the world. As Tom passed a shop window, he caught his reflection and saw the bags under his eyes. He'd barely slept last night and he didn't feel at his best. It wasn't just the fretful cries of his daughter in the room next door keeping him from rest, but questions of money had nagged at him as he lay in bed, staring up in the dark. Over supper, Sybil had asked him if she could use some of the dowry money to take their daughter to a pediatrician. Tom sighed. In times like this, he was used to consulting his brother for advice, and he could rely on him to offer a practical point of view on things. But Tristan wasn't here. And it further nagged at him that his mother seemed evasive when he asked why and where his brother had gone.

Nothing changed about the newsroom while Tom was away, but the place seemed strangely out of proportion. The walls felt narrow and the lights burned feeble and low. Sitting at their scarred writing surfaces, everyone seemed to sit up straighter as he walked past, on his way to Jamie Stewart's office. It should have been familiar territory, the air thick with the familiar smells of pencil shavings and ink, yet he felt as though he was seeing his surroundings through the eyes of a stranger, his perspective distorted. Tom spied one of his colleagues through a fog of nicotine. Donal Tóibín, his ever-present green visor perched atop his bald head, looked up and nodded, paused in slashing through copy and saluted Tom with his red pencil. Young Tadhg Delany, emerging from the photo development room carrying a pile of photos, skidded to a stop, just barely missing Tom. His freckled face broke out into a wide grin as he expertly maneuvered around him, on his way to the photo editorial desk, but not before calling out a hello and welcome back. Right outside Stewart's office, Alexandra stopped mid-sentence in her conversation with one of the pool secretaries, and craned her neck over the girl's shoulder at Tom. Her open mouth was a perfectly lined, cherry-colored "O." She squealed, "Why if it isn't Tom Branson, back from enemy lines!"

"Hello Lexa," Tom grinned. He was holding his hat in his hand, and he gripped the handles of his briefcase tighter. "I don't have an appointment, but I'd like fifteen minutes with Stewart."

"He's going to bloody well drop what he's doing to see you, I'll tell you that," Alexandra rushed over and wound him in a hug. "It's so good to see you back."


End file.
